All Those Little Moments Are What Make A Life
by coffeebuddha
Summary: A collection of drabbles and shorts for a 100 Themes challenge. Rated mostly for language. Contains various genres, characters, and ships-mostly Shassie with some Shules, Gules, and misc.
1. 4 Dark

4. Dark

* * *

Something went wrong. Granted, due to his habit of just running head first into pretty much everything, things going wrong wasn't exactly a new concept.

But not like this.

There were chemicals. The factory was supposed to be abandoned, but someone had left behind the chemicals. Biohazards. Toxic. Dangerous.

It wasn't supposed to happen. They weren't supposed to have noticed him following them. They weren't supposed to be that smart. They weren't supposed to have thrown those vials at him.

It wasn't supposed to go that wrong.

He could still hear, taste, feel, smell. Could still deduce more from those four senses alone than probably anyone else would ever be able to. But it wouldn't be enough. It was all over.

How was he supposed to pretend to be psychic when he couldn't see?

* * *

Kristin: Thought I'd give the 100 Themes challenge a try. (http:/psychfic [dot] com/modules/challenges/challenges [dot] php?chalid=98) I'm not going in order and updates will be sporadic at best. If you enjoy/hate/are confused by what I write, I'd love to hear about it. At least then I'll know someone's actually reading these things.

Disclaimer: Psych and it's characters do not belong to me.

1/100


	2. 22 Mother Nature

22. Mother Nature

* * *

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the air was just crisp and cool enough to be refreshing, and Shawn hated his father. Now, he'd said that he hated his father a lot of times, and usually he was telling the truth, but this time he really meant it.

Camping? _Really?_

The last time Shawn had been in the woods, he'd had a gun wound and was running for his life. It hadn't exactly been Happy Skippy Fun Times. What sort of sick, sadistic bastard would willingly subject their own son to this sort of torture after that kind of traumatic event?

And then there was the time he'd been running for his life from treasure hunters who had wanted to fix the problem of him not having enough holes in him and had ultimately ended up being betrayed by his favorite-only-uncle.

And he didn't even want to think about being stranded in the Canadian wilderness or the whole werewolf thing. Naked men in wheelbarrows was a whole other kind of trauma that he hoped to never have to talk to his mom about.

Shawn glared at his dad's back and wondered if one of the bugs biting him was radioactive and would give him heat vision. Wonderful heat vision that would let him _kill_ his father.

Oh sweet pineapple, was that a raccoon?

It was official. Mother Nature was a bitch and his dad hated him too.

* * *

2/100


	3. 53 Keeping A Secret

53. Keeping A Secret

* * *

I'm a good detective. Oh, sure, I've read the articles and heard all of Spencer's little quips. I know I'm at least half way to being a laughing stock most days. But I also know I'm a good detective. Damned good, actually. They don't make just anyone Head Detective, you know, especially not when you're as young as I was.

Ahem.

Anyway.

My point was that I can solve a case, solve a mystery, without Spencer's help. And damn it if Spencer wasn't one of the biggest mysteries to ever walk through my door.

I always knew he wasn't psychic. For one, there's just no such thing. For another…Well, okay, I don't have another, but come on! Psychic? Not on your life!

At first I just thought he had some kind of source, but with every case he solved, that became more and more unlikely. The cases were too different, too random. He'd have to have multiple sources to know as much as he did, and I would have caught him with one of them sooner or later. So it wasn't a source.

Santa Barbara's a pretty nice place; most people seem happy to stay here their entire lives. I have connections, and with the right words to the right people it isn't hard to get a list. Classmates, teachers, that sort of thing. Turns out Spencer's always been the sort to run at the mouth. And it turns out that Henry's had to explain things to more than one teacher who couldn't understand how the kid who seemed to sleep through class somehow still managed to ace every test.

Not everyone is Gus. Not everyone is Henry. Not everyone is willing to lie to the police for that little fraud.

Now I know. I know how he does it. Doesn't mean I like him any better. Sure as hell doesn't make me happy to know that the reason he keeps solving my cases is because he's just that much better at my job than I am. And it won't keep me from trying to keep him out of dangerous cases. Good or not, he's still a civilian. I don't care if Henry did raise him for this, he's still someone I've sworn an oath to protect.

Vick has a right to know that her precious 'psychic' is a fake.

But, you know, I'd never tell her, but Vick's pretty sharp. She must know that he isn't what he says he is. And she still keeps him around.

And I guess, in the end, the fact that she just _has_ to already know is going to have to be enough for me.

Whether I like it or not, the bastard gets results.

* * *

Kristin: This rapid update has been brought to you by the letter I. I is for insomnia. Gah, insomnia. Gah! From hell's fiery depths I stab at thee!

3/100


	4. 61 Fairy Tale

Kristin: I am putting an author's note at the beginning of this story. I never put author's notes at the beginnings of stories. That means that this author's note is **IMPORTANT**. This is technically the sequel/continuation of my oneshot Being Human, which is not included in this collection. If you haven't/don't want to read BH, then all you really need to know is that in it Carlton goes to a bar to get drunk and ends up making friends with the single mother who lives next door to him. That is all.

61. Fairy Tale

* * *

_"Once upon a time…"_

Carlton was a little confused by it all. Oh, sure he understood the how. It had started that night in the bar. Drinking had turned into breakfast, breakfast into coffee, coffee into a promise to stop by later that he'd actually kept. So he understood how it had started, but he was completely baffled by the why. He wasn't exactly the kind of man who inspired random women to just start hanging around. So...why?

"…_a strange, exotic place…"_

The house was older and starting to get a little run down. It didn't seem like a big deal to offer to help patch up the roof or tighten a leaky pipe. After all, what else was he going to do on his off days? And it didn't seem like a big deal to let her make him dinner as a thank you. And really, maybe that was how it had truly started. Not with drinks and coffees and promises, but with a few acts of unasked for kindness.

"…_it was not his true name, but the people called him…"_

At first, he was a little uncomfortable with how flippantly she used his first name. There just weren't many people who actually called him Carlton. Of course, then he'd realized that Wendy seemed to default to first name basis with everyone, up to and including their mailman; Carlton didn't think he'd ever even _met _their mailman, but she called him by his first name. It was both reassuring and annoying that he was on the same level as Basil the mailman, but it didn't last for long.

Once you stopped being an acquaintance, you were given an endearment. Her daughter–Connie-was 'angel'. Friends were 'dear'. Close friends were 'honey' or 'hun'. Her sister and two brothers were all 'sweetie'. In old home movies, her ex-husband was 'baby', but now he was nothing but Jim, except on those occasions when he forgot a birthday or a piano recital or a child support payment, when he became 'that rat bastard', and even then only when Connie couldn't hear.

After a few weeks, Carlton was shocked to realize that he'd skipped straight over 'dear' and had somehow ended up a 'honey'. He was even more shocked when he realized that he was completely okay with it.

"…_the seasons changed and they took comfort…"_

By the end of the first month, it was just understood that if he was home by seven, there would be an extra place set for him at their dinner table.

By month two, if his car was back by seven, but he didn't come over, Wendy would put Connie to bed and be on his front step by nine with a covered plate and a sympathetic ear.

In month five, Wendy introduced him to his first serious girlfriend since Victoria and Lucinda, and when it ended in month eight, she brought him a bottle of scotch and an old western.

In month ten, when her latest relationship ended with the scumbag stealing her identity to apply for five new credit cards, Carlton insisted on being the officer to make the arrest and then spent the evening letting her cry on his shoulder while they watched Meg Ryan movies.

She brought a pie to his mother's for Thanksgiving and Christmas morning found him in her living room with his very own small stack of presents.

"…_the most beautiful princess…"_

He liked Connie. She was sweet, innocent. When you spent as much time dealing with filth as he did, those qualities seemed all the more precious. If he was almost unnaturally good at dealing with her, it was only because he was too tightly wrapped around her little finger to do anything that would upset her. She liked horses, so the next time he had reenactment practice, he invited her to come and ride one. When she exclaimed that she would simply _die_ if she didn't get to see some new cartoon in theaters, but Wendy was too busy trying to make a deadline to take her, Carlton volunteered. He was already planning how he'd put the fear of God into her first boyfriend.

"…_the fairies came with gifts…"_

Carlton hadn't been home at all for three days because of a case. He'd been taking naps at his desk, ordering takeout, and showering in the locker room. Vick was pissed at him, wanted him to go home, go to sleep, but he was so _close_ he could taste it.

About halfway through the fourth day, Wendy walked into the station with enough food to feed practically the entire force and scolded him for the better part of an hour about taking proper care of himself while she supervised his lunch. Vick arched an eyebrow and suggested-ordered-that he take Wendy's advice. Juliet made surprised, pleased faces at him and mouthed 'She's pretty!' around a bite of yeast roll. Spencer started calling her 'Lassie's Special Lady Friend' and somehow managed to act like even more of an ass than normal. Carlton rolled his eyes and scowled, because he and Wendy just weren't like that.

"…_a new home and a new family…"_

And somewhere between reading bedtime stories to Connie and endless conversations with Wendy and his casual upgrade from 'Carlton' to 'honey' to 'sweetie', Carlton realized that she'd adopted him.

"…_and they lived happily ever after."

* * *

_

Kristin: I'm not entirely certain what to say about this one, other than that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

4/100


	5. 18 Rainbow

18. Rainbow

* * *

He's in his basement apartment in London when he happens to look up through the window and catch a glimpse of shiny red pumps just at eye level. The legs they're attached to are a damn fine sight too, but the heels themselves are so lush and vibrant that in his mind he's immediately transported back to the month he spent working at an apple orchard and his mouth starts to water.

The best sunsets he's ever seen in his entire life are the ones that he watches when he's living in Hawaii, working at the Dole pineapple plantation. He sits out on the beach almost every night with a huge hunk of pineapple in hand and watches as the sun hits the water and turns the world heart stopping, flaming shades of orange.

He's never been big on fish before, but when he's doing night time janitorial work at an aquarium in Australia, a canary cichlid catches his eye. He spends his entire shift following that single fish as it effortlessly glides its way through the tank. In the morning they fire him, but he isn't really upset, because at the third shop he tries he finds a shirt that exact shade of yellow.

He decides to visit Gus at college for the weekend. Gus doesn't seem eager to introduce him to any of his college friends, but once they hit that first frat party, he stops caring about that. When they make it back to Gus' dorm room and he's certain that Gus is passed out for the night, he packs his things. He makes a stop at an all night store and buys twenty packets of lime jello. That morning, on his way out of town, he stops at a payphone and leaves Gus a message with instructions to go check out the campus's biggest fountain. Gus is undoubtedly going to be pissed the next time they talk, but that doesn't stop him from laughing for nearly a week.

Working clean up at the theater usually isn't so bad. Of course, usually he isn't clean up after Blue Man Group. The show was fun to watch, memorable even if you weren't him, but now it's late and he's tired and coming down from an emotional high and there's paint _everywhere_. The theater's dark and achingly empty as he works, but when he finally stumbles back to his apartment and sees the bold slash of blue paint on his cheek, he smiles and takes a picture in the mirror.

He's driving down a winding path in the Midwest when he suddenly turns a corner and finds himself on the edge of a forest, bordered by stunning flowers. Without really thinking about it, he parks his bike by the side of the road and wanders out into the midst of the thickest growth. He throws himself down on his back, his body crushing the plants and filling the air with their fragrance. Later, when he reaches a town, his first stop is at a library, where he spends hours pouring through botany books until he finds the flower he's looking for-_Baptisia australis_ or Blue Wild Indigo.

In Austin, Texas, there's a woman, probably sixty or seventy years old, with hair the most brilliant shade of violet that he's ever seen. She serves him breakfast and he tells her about his travels. When he's done, she grabs his arm in a surprisingly tight grip and tells him with a loud, happy laugh, "Shawny, my boy, there's no point in having a life if you don't go out there and _live_ it."

The world is full of amazing, living colors, and he's going to see them all.

* * *

5/100


	6. 65 Horror

65. Horror

* * *

Lassiter swallows, his throat and mouth suddenly dry, and licks his lips. Tastes the sweat on his upper one. He can feel the sweat beading on his forehead and already his shirt is sticking to his back and underarms under his jacket.

He is surrounded. There is no escape. He has no choice but to stay and face this down. Do his job. Anything else would be unacceptable.

His heart is in his throat, pounding so hard he feels like he is choking. All he can feel in his chest, where his heart should be, is tightness, slowly squeezing the life out of him. Killing him as surely as the monstrosities around him would, if only given the chance.

His extremities are cold, tingling, and he clenches his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

Lassiter forces himself to take deep, steady, even breaths. He has to appear calm. No weakness. Not here. Not now. No one can know how terrified he is.

Somewhere behind him, he can hear Spencer's amused voice ring out.

"Who murders someone in a freaking snow globe museum?"

* * *

Kristin: If you're planning a trip to Vienna anytime soon, there actually is a snow globe museum there. I don't know if there's one anywhere else in the world, but it seems the sort of thing that would pop up in Santa Barbara.

Also, a huge thanks to gnbrules, who's been so kind in reviewing pretty much every single Psych related thing that I've written. I adore you as much as you can adore someone you've never met and have only been aware of for a couple of weeks. ;)

6/10


	7. 10 Breathe Again AND 59 No Way Out

Kristin: Another author's note at the beginning, which means I have something **IMPORTANT** to say. You'll notice that this chapter has two themes instead of one. That's because they are two different endings to 4. Dark, which, if you've already forgotten, was the first chapter.

10. Breathe Again

* * *

The only times he'd ever been more scared in his entire life were the times when he'd thought Gus was never going to walk back out of that bank and when he'd thought he was about to lose the most important women in his life.

The doctors said that the prognosis was good. They said a lot of things he didn't really understand. Things about alkali burns and oddly named prescriptions and what he'd later realized was actually the name of a surgeon, which had brought up questions about whether names were really proper words, and that train of thought made his head hurt worse than his injury had, so he had dropped it and made a list of Judd Nelson's movies in order of pure awesomeness instead. Besides, Gus seemed to have a pretty good handle on all the techno talk, so when his best friend told him to sign or consent to something, he did.

The bandages came off and it _hurt_. Even in the dark room, his eyes watered and it took minutes-minutes that felt like entire eternities-before he could open them properly. But that didn't matter, because when he opened his eyes, he would swear that his balding, pock faced ophthalmologist was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

For the first time since the accident, Shawn exhaled.

* * *

59. No Way Out

* * *

At first, the doctors had been hopeful.

That was before the inflammation hadn't died down. Before the infection had spread.

They'd been less hopeful after that, but they'd still sung the praises of some new surgery.

That was before the surgery. Before the bandages came off. Before his body rejected the transplants.

Intellectually, he knew that this didn't end his life. But for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to care about what was 'intellectually' true. He didn't care what options the doctors said he still had, what 'resources' were available to someone in his condition. He didn't care that his business, the only thing he'd ever really worked at, was gone. He didn't care that Gus had barely left his side since this all had started. That Vick wasn't pressing charges. That Juliet brought him pineapples every day. That when he spoke to Lassiter there was pity, god damned _pity_, in the other man's voice.

And he certainly didn't care that his dad was there yelling at him about running away. Running away from his problems. Running away from the truth. Running away from treatment. Running away from the entire world.

He didn't fucking care, because for the first time in his life, it felt like running wasn't an option. For the first time in his life, he felt really, truly stuck.

* * *

Kristin: These themes are for Millennialice, who made me sit back and think more than I'd ever planned to about what I was doing to Shawn by blinding him. I hope you enjoy them!

7/100

8/100


	8. 42 Standing Still

42. Standing Still

* * *

The perp is male, Caucasian, late teens to early twenties, approximately 5'11 and 120 lbs, dressed in a gray hoodie and dark denim jeans. He has the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks of an addict. Henry would bet his boat that the designer purse clutched in his sweaty hands doesn't belong to him.

There's a rookie chasing him on foot. Tall, solid kid, probably not much older than the criminal he's after. The kind of face you'd see on a Wheaties box.

Two weeks ago, Henry would have been right there next to him. The adrenalin would be flooding through him. His blood would be pounding. The hard impact of the concrete against the soles of his boots would jolt up his legs with every step.

Two weeks ago, Henry would have been in on the chase. But one week ago, he'd turned in his gun. Turned in his badge. Become an civilian. So now, even though his brain is screaming at him to get up, help, do something, and his body is tense from his having to consciously keep if from leaping up and giving chase, he just sits and finishes his coffee.

* * *

9/100


	9. 86 Seeing Red

86. Seeing Red

* * *

His favorite color used to be yellow. Golden, shiny, like a big piece of pineapple. He used to look at the sun just a little too long and wonder what it would be like if he could cut out a small slice of it and carry it around with him. He's heard a song about that. Some girl singing about a pocket full of sunshine. Shawn's pretty certain that one of his drunken ramblings might have inspired the lyrics, but he doesn't have enough evidence to sue for royalties.

Later, he liked blue. Blue, like the sky. Like the ocean. Like icy eyes that bore into him too intently, daring him to make a mistake. Blue that could melt with a sudden, unexpected flash of humor or passion. Blue that made his blood race and his breath catch in his throat.

But right now, with his body trapped between a chilly concrete block wall and a hot, lean body, he's reevaluating his favorite colors. Because, yes, those warm pools of intense blue are gorgeous, but he can't help but notice the crimson blush creeping up a white neck and staining pale cheeks and ears. Can't stop a small moan when a pink tongue darts out to dampen kiss swollen, ruddy lips. Can't stop himself from wrapping a burgundy tie tighter around his fist and yanking it's owner back down toward him.

Yeah, Shawn decides as he arches into that delicious heat and leans up on his toes to recapture that mouth, red is definitely his new favorite color.

* * *

Kristin: I like the idea of police picnics. Don't know why, really. Probably something to do with the alliteration. Ahem…yeah.

10/100


	10. 93 Give Up

93. Give Up

* * *

She didn't like to do things the easy way. If she'd learned nothing else in her life, it was that if it felt too easy, then you were probably doing it wrong. In school, instead of just glancing over notes right before the test, she had always set aside at least an hour a night the week before to study. In the academy, instead of meeting the minimum requirements, she had pushed herself physically and mentally so that even the most chauvinistic man there would have to admit that she was a damn fine cop.

When she started working at the SBPD, she was originally assigned to a young detective, barely more experienced than she was. By the end of the week she'd set her sights on Carlton Lassiter, determined to become his partner. And by the end of the second week, she'd been successfully reassigned.

After that first case with the psychic, the right thing to do would have been to ignore the rumors and comments and carry on as if nothing had happened. With the amount of fear and respect people had for Detective Lassiter, the talk probably would have died down before too long.

But…

As she boarded the plane that would take her away from Santa Barbara, from Carlton, she knew exactly what she was doing. She was taking the easy way out. It wasn't something she was proud of.

She did it anyway.

* * *

11/100


	11. 1 Introduction

1. Introduction

* * *

Lassiter hates these stupid things. They're boring, annoying, a complete waste of time and departmental resources. If-no, not if, when-he's named Chief, the first thing to go will be the annual police picnic. It's too many hours of too many bugs, too many people, and too much sun. It's just…too much.

He glimpses Davis by the buffet and makes his way toward him. He met Davis in the Academy. Good cop, good man. As he draws closer, he notices the other man's wife. Can't quite remember her name. Something starting with an M. May? Martha? Mary? Sweet enough woman, but a little annoying. Forever trying to set him up with someone. Davis is always joking that his Margaret-_that's_ her name-won't be happy until all of her single friends are settled, which means all of Davis' single friends have to pay the price.

Carlton's nearly on top of them when he realizes that today isn't going to be any different. There's another woman with them and he's close enough to notice the lack of a ring. He glances around, trying to find a way to surreptitiously slip away without them noticing, when the woman shifts forward and he sees her face.

She's lovely. The sort of girl who inspires artists to paint, poets to compose, and cowboys to hang up their spurs. Her gaze swings around and lands on him. Their eyes lock. For a long moment, her eyes are distant, cold. Frozen.

Then he smiles at her and it's like someone's flicked on a switch somewhere deep inside of her. Her ice queen expression melts, suddenly all sunshine and light. Lassiter's breath catches. Margaret finally notices him, takes him by the arm, and steers him a little closer.

"Carlton, have you met Victoria?"

* * *

Kristin: In case you've somehow managed to miss it, Carlton Lassiter is definitely my favorite Psych character. Just for the record.

Also, I'm back in class again tomorrow, so updates will probably be a lot slower starting then.

12/100


	12. 40 Rated

40. Rated

* * *

"Seven."

"I'm not doing this, Shawn."

"Eh, maybe a six? Oh, wait, no. Definitely a five."

"It's demeaning to women."

"Damn! Look at that nine!"

"I'm serious, Shawn!"

"Aw, come on, Gus! Who's it really going to hurt?"

"Shawn! You told me this was important! I'm missing my chess club meeting!"

"Seriously?"

"Shawn…"

"Okay, just…Look at that girl over there. Look at her curves, the play of the light on her skin. Look at the spray of the surf hitting her legs. You can't tell me that isn't a fine sight to see. When you look at her, doesn't a little scoreboard pop up in your head?"

"That one over there?"

"Yeah."

"The one with her back toward us?"

"Mmhmm."

"Well, I guess if I had to say. I'd give her a ten."

"Gus, that's just wrong!"

"What? The girl is hot, Shawn!"

"Well, yeah, but she's also your sister, dude."

"…"

"Dude, you just checked out your own sister. That's pretty messed up."

"…"

"Gus? Gus, what are you-Woah! Gus, put that dow-OW!"

* * *

Kristin: Ah, dialogue, my old nemesis, we meet again. I've never been terribly great at the whole 'people talking' aspect of writing and on the whole I've gotta say that I'm about five different kinds of not proud of this, but I'm tired and it made me giggle, so…yeah, enjoy some teenage Shawn and Gus.

13/100


	13. 82 Can You Hear Me?

82. Can You Hear Me?

* * *

They managed to evacuate the building without too many problems. It wasn't even that hard to find the two bombs. He called in the bomb squad and within ten minutes they were packing their things back up. Later, Lassiter would mostly be pissed about the fact that he hadn't realized there was a third bomb.

Vick met him in the emergency room. The bomb squad had suffered some cuts, burns, and bruises, but were otherwise fine. Even Lassiter had escaped more or less unscathed. Well, relatively speaking. Sure, he was going to have to readjust to wearing an arm sling for a week or so, but the other thing wasn't even a big deal. It was barely a thing. Hell, it was a non-thing.

Of course, Vick saw things a little differently. He spent over an hour arguing with her and brought in three separate doctors to give her their opinions before she'd agreed that he could come in and do paperwork instead of going home on medical leave.

He didn't notice Spencer until the other man leaned over his desk and waved his hands in his face. And that not noticing, well, it was kind of nice.

Spencer talked and talked and talked, but no matter how big and frantic his gestures became or how wide he opened his mouth or how far into Lassiter's personal space he leaned, all Lassiter could hear was that same ringing he'd been listening to since the explosion had temporarily knocked out his hearing.

Slowly, very slowly, a smile spread across Lassiter's face. He'd just found his silver lining.

* * *

Kristin: It is my goal to, over the course of these themes, deprive the entire cast of Psych of (at least) one of their five senses (at least) once. Nah, not really. Although it does present certain possibilities…

Bwahaha?

14/100


	14. 12 Insanity

12. Insanity

* * *

"Henry! Today isn't your usual day, is it?"

"Nah, but I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, so I thought I'd come see him early. How's he been this week, June?"

"Oh, you know him. Half the time he's keeping the entire building entertained with those stories he makes up and the other half, well…you know."

"Yeah."

"I'll tell you, I have no idea how he comes up with all that stuff. I mean, I've seen people with delusions and hallucinations before, but everything he says is just so intricate and detailed. You'd almost think it had actually happened."

"Kid's always had a remarkable brain."

"I'll say! Discovering dinosaurs? Werewolf conspiracies? And the murders! Now, I know he's just about the nicest, gentlest patient here, but after he had those episodes with the serial killer, it was all I could do to convince some of the younger nurses to be in a room with him alone."

"Hmm. And other than the…visions? His mother said something about you changing his medications again?"

"What? Oh, no we just upped the dosage a little. But you should already know that. We have to do it for him every year around this time. Summer just makes him so upset."

"Makes sense. That's when the accident happened. Such a damn stupid thing…"

"Oh! Oh, Henry. Here, I think I have a tissue somewhere."

"No, I'm fine."

"If I said something I shouldn't have-"

"You didn't."

"It's been about four years now, hasn't it?"

"Four years and two weeks. The car came out of nowhere. He was killed instantly. Or at least that's what they told me."

"They must have been terribly close for it to effect him like this."

"Closer than brothers. They grew up together and were just completely inseparable. Balanced each other out."

"The poor dear…Well, we're here and you've been listening to me yammer for long enough. Go on in and have a visit. I'll just leave you two alone."

Henry slumps into a chair, stares into eyes that look right through him, and sighs.

"Hello, Gus."

* * *

Kristin: Another dialogue fic, which I apologize for. Like I said earlier, I've never been terribly great at writing people just talking-they always seem to come out so _awkward_ sounding-and I figured it's about time I stepped outside of my comfort zone and tried to improve.

This is definitely a fic where I'm not really sure if I managed to make what's going on clear enough. If you have a question or comment, don't hesitate to let me know.

**Update:** Just to clarify, in this fic Shawn dies a few months before the series starts, so all of the cases are in Gus' head.

15/100


	15. 35 Hold My Hand

Kristin: **WARNING! **This chapter contains romance of a 'physical nature'. Pretty mild, nothing graphic, but it is sexual, so if that bothers you then you should probably skip this one.

35. Hold My Hand

* * *

I've always felt that hand holding is a surprisingly complex thing. There are so many reasons to do it, so many people to do it with. You can draw a lot of conclusions about two people by the way they hold hands. A mother's holding her child's hand as they cross the street. It's protective, concerned, loving. Two girls walk down the street, their hands loosely clasped and swinging freely between them. There's friendship there, affectionate and close. That pair there, the ones who keep rearranging their hands and fidgeting? Probably a new relationship. Neither one's completely comfortable yet, but it would take an act of God to get either of them to let go.

I've held a lot of hands in my life. Big, small, rough, soft, hot, cold, clammy, dry. I could write a Dr. Seuss book with all the different hands I've held. All that's missing is the red hand, blue hand.

Now Lassie...Lassie has nice hands. He has nice hands like _whoa_. Big with long fingers. They're strong, but don't fumble when it comes to delicate work. He has pianist hands. Can you just imagine? Lassie in some smoky jazz club, tie and collar loose and hair messy, bent over a piano, eyes half closed in concentration, hands dancing, fingers coaxing smooth riffs from the keys with each deliberate caress?

The first times our hands touched, it was always a warning. He'd grab and pull and force and push, and while that was hot-clearly a scowly Lassie is a sexy Lassie-it made me wonder if maybe he didn't like me that much. Always 'don't touch that, Spencer', 'get off my desk, Spencer', 'what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen at two in the morning, Spencer!' Pssh. I brought him a pineapple. He should have been falling at my feet in gratitude, not crushing the bones of my hand as he yanked me out of the kitchen and almost literally kicked me out his front door.

Even with my memory, I'm not really sure when things started to change. Somewhere along the line, his hands stopped being quite as harsh. The pad of his thumb would maybe graze across my knuckles. The tips of his fingers would linger a little longer than necessary on the back of mine. Or curl into my palm for a split second, barely long enough to register the slight graze of fingernails.

I do remember the first time I didn't let him pull away. His finger lightly traced an invisible pattern on the fleshy bit under my thumb for an impossibly long moment and my throat went dry and my brain went '_more'_ and my body went '_nowfuckplease'_. As he started to let go, I grabbed his hand in both of mine and took his teasing finger in my mouth, sucked on it hard, and if I'd had any psychic powers I'd have used them to make certain he knew exactly what his taunting was going to lead to if he didn't stop soon. Since I'm not actually psychic, I made do with a not so subtle moan and my best Fuck Me look.

Which, you know, seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, that whole location, location, location thing is pretty true, because no matter how much unresolved sexual tension two people have, it turns out it's _not_ a good idea to start making sex noises and sucking on an anal retentive man's body parts when you're in the middle of his office. In fact, it can make things kind of awkward. Seems like one of those things Gus should have warned me about.

The second time was back in his kitchen in the middle of the night. At least I knocked that time, even if I didn't technically wait for an answer before letting myself in. And Lassie stopped yelling somewhere between the first scrape of my teeth against his earlobe and him bodily pressing me against the counter so hard it left bruises on my lower back. Not that I'm complaining.

Then, in a blur of hands and mouths and _ohsweetfuckingpineappleyes_, we somehow ended up in Lassie's bedroom, where he finally put those amazing hands to work. The world narrowed to heat and gasps and pleasure and the feel of his sweat slicked chest against my back. His breath shuddered wet and warm along my spine right before his hot, open mouth sucked at the base of my neck, while his hands slid up my sides and down my arms to tangle our fingers together. And somehow the feel of our clasped hands-tense, sweaty, and desperate-seemed more intimate than anything else that we were doing.

It's been years and our hands are still together. Comfortable. Possessive. Affectionate. Protective.

Loving.

You can draw a lot of conclusions about two people by the way they hold hands.

* * *

Kristin: Funny story. True story. When I originally jotted down a note on what I wanted this theme to be, it was going to be a fluffy Shules piece. No, seriously. I wrote an outline and everything. (shawn = zomg!relationship freakout, looks at hands, fluffy bullshit, everything fine[These are my actual notes. For reals. Feel special that I love you enough to show them to you.]) It was going to be cavity enducing. But that clearly didn't pan out. So, instead you guys get Shassie and my first ever attempt at almost-but-not-really-sex and a look at my odd hand fixation. Um...I'm gonna go somewhere else and be embarrassed now.

Also, without wangsting too much, just had an absolute shit day that's showing great promise of spreading through the entire week, so it might be a little bit before the next update.

**UPDATE:**So, reread this again-because I'm obsessive and anal retentive and read everything I write about ten thousand times and usually _still_ don't feel satisfied with the end result-and it's just...really not that good. Rushed, awkward, flat. I'm debating whether I want to scrap it and start from scratch or just do a partial rewrite at a later date when looking at it doesn't make me want to claw my eyes out. Anyone have an opinion? I'll give you a cookie. Or at least a fic that doesn't suck. As much.

16/100


	16. 15 Silence

15. Silence

* * *

There are innumerable sounds in any silence. What people think of as silence, fake silence, only exists in a sensory deprivation chamber. And even then, you still have all the little sounds that you make yourself.

Here in the station, in real silence, Juliet still has those small bodily noises. There's the rustle of her sleeve against her skin. The silken slide of her hair slipping over her shoulder. The unbearably loud pounding of her heart beating a pulse in her ears.

In the background, there's a plethora of other noises. She hears a splash as Buzz spills a pot of coffee. Somewhere, someone is using a stapler with perhaps a touch more enthusiasm than is wise. Lassiter's barking out orders, probably to a rookie. The printer spits out some pages for a case she's been working. A drunk down in the cells is screaming. A bird chirps, only slightly muffled by the closed window and the low roar of traffic.

She swallows thickly, and even that reverberates in her ears.

The only thing she can't really hear anything from is the man in front of her. He's almost unnaturally still. Definitely uncharacteristically quiet. He just stands there, staring at her, breathing so shallowly that she can barely see his chest move. He's acting strange and serious and obviously putting so much effort into trying to make her see that this isn't a joke that the words slip out almost before she's realized she's come to a decision.

"Yes."

"Yes?" A flicker of disbelief and a hesitant smile.

"Yes. I'd love to have dinner with you, Shawn."

* * *

Kristin: And here's some Shules, just in case you thought I was kidding about the whole 'various ships' thing in the summary. It probably won't happen often since I usually find their on screen relationship uncomfortably awkward at best.

If you missed the update tagged onto the previous chapter, I'm thinking of either scrapping or rewriting Hold My Hand. You know, because it's pretty much complete crap. Opinions would be more than appreciated.

17/100


	17. 72 Mischief Managed

72. Mischief Managed

* * *

He doesn't have much time. He'll have to work fast. Grab the bottle. One second to unscrew the lid, five to remove the seal. The next bottle takes a second and a half to open, but no seal this time. Ten seconds to dump and rinse the contents down the drain. Twenty to empty the first bottle into the second. A swipe of a sponge to clean up the evidence eats up another six seconds. Two seconds to make certain everything's back in it's proper place. Then the empty bottle's snug in his pocket and he's casually sauntering back to the front of the office. Forty-five and a half seconds total, which means he finished with about fifteen to spare.

He picks up a magazine and pretends to be engrossed in an article about mani/pedis, which isn't hard because proper cuticle care is very serious business, while listening for any sounds from the kitchen. After about eighteen seconds, he hears his partner shuffle in. Water runs, a spoon clinks against the sides of a bowl, and the microwave runs for a few minutes. After the microwave dings, there's the sound of a cabinet door opening and a faint rustle like something powdery being poured.

He starts to grin, his feet already moving, when he hears the loud gag.

"Shawn!" Even Gus' loudest angry voice sounds muffled from the cold that's knocked the Super Smeller out of commission. "You want to tell me why I'm eating paprika on my oatmeal instead of cinnamon?"

As he slips out the front door, Shawn indulges in a little evil cackling.

* * *

Kristin: The sensory deprivation continues. Bwahaha. I don't know why I'm so mean to poor Gus. I never intend to be. Something about him just makes it too easy.

18/100


	18. 48 Childhood

48. Childhood

* * *

Juliet adores her parents, but she idolizes her older brother, Ewan. He's already in high school, but he still lets her tag along with him and his friends. He stands up for her when she needs him and teaches her how to stand up for herself since he won't always be around. When things go wrong, she goes to him and he makes them right. She wants to be just like him when she grows up.

Gus' favorite night of the week is Thursday, because that's family game night. They order take out, their only non-home cooked meal of the week, and spend hours eating and laughing and talking about anything and everything. Gus can't imagine how anyone could be unhappy if they have a family.

Shawn spends most nights either out on the beach or up in his room. He doesn't like being in the water, but watching and listening to the waves is soothing. His room is his sanctuary. It's the one place he can go and not have to worry about how many hats there are or if a light bulb is out. He can lounge in his room and work on his Judd Nelson impersonation and eat pop rocks and pretend like he doesn't hear his parents fighting. When the shouting gets too loud, Shawn puts on his earphones, turns his music up as high as it will go, and plans a thousand different ways to escape.

Carlton loves his little brother, because his mother tells him he has to love everyone or he'll go to hell, but he loves his bb gun more. He loves his sister at least as much as his gun, but he'd never tell her that. Even if she is a good shot, she's still a girl and there are certain principles that have to be respected. He loves and honors his mother because that's what you're supposed to do. But at night, when he's curled up under his covers, he dreams. He dreams about being a cowboy or a cop and stopping bad guys when he grows up. He dreams about having a horse than he can ride whenever he wants. He dreams about moving to Old Sonora and living with Sheriff Hank. Mostly though, he dreams about the day his dad will come home.

* * *

Kristin: It's amazing what some pineapple chunks, a _kickASS_ choir rehearsal, and a few kind words can do for my mood. Today has been so much better than I expected it to be last night.

Kid!Carlton and Kid!Shawn make me feel all maternal and gooshy inside. And the Gusters would _totally _be the sort of family to have scrabble and trivial pursuit tournaments. But not Monopoly. Not since that time Mrs. Guster caught Mr. Guster stealing from the bank.

19/100


	19. 14 Smile

14. Smile

* * *

Juliet is beautiful. Oh, sure, brides usually are, but she's especially lovely. Lassiter swallows dryly and stares at a flower arrangement as Juliet's father leads her down the aisle toward Shawn Spencer. He wants her to be happy. Telling them, telling her, would only make her upset. She's already upset too often because of their job. He doesn't ever want to be part of the reason she's hurting. He wants her to be _happy_. She deserves it.

He makes himself smile, even exchanges a few words with someone's aunt about the bridesmaids dresses. He'd almost asked Vick to put him on duty today, but that would have raised to many questions. He could imagine Vick's reaction if she'd found out. Disgust, shock, pity.

It's hard enough watching the person he's in love with marry someone else without knowing that he was being pitied because of it.

Instead he sits and watches. Kisses Juliet on the cheek. Congratulates Spencer and shakes his hand. Even tosses in a small threat about taking care of his partner that he's only partially joking about. Spencer clasps his hand just a little too tightly for just a second too long, his mouth grinning, but his eyes dark and knowing and apologetic.

Later, when the bride and groom take to the floor for their first dance, Carlton makes his way over to the bar, orders a scotch, and forces himself to tear his eyes away from Spencer-_Shawn_-and keep smiling.

* * *

Kristin: Why am I so mean to these characters when I love them so much? I'm going to blame this one on the fact that I _can't _get Etta James' All I Could Do Was Cry out of my head today. If you've never heard it, then do yourself a favor and follow the link to Youtube. (http:/www[dot]youtube[dot]com/watch?v=0_i-AI61Peo) Phenomenal song sung by a powerhouse of a vocalist.

Also, can I just take second to point at the numbers at the bottom of the screen? 2/10ths of the way through! Woo!

20/100


	20. 38 Abandoned

38. Abandoned

* * *

There were a lot of reasons that Carlton Lassiter could list if anyone asked him why he hated Shawn Spencer. He was a conman. He was obnoxious. He made a mockery of proper police work. He had the personality of an ADHD twelve year old on a sugar rush. He'd used Carlton as a prop in his 'visions' more times than he could count. He insisted on flirting with anything that moved, but still managed to act indignant when O'hara didn't take his advances seriously.

So, yes, he was fully justified in hating Spencer. Just the sight of the other man made his blood pressure spike and his chest tighten with anger. But that list was really just a list of excuses.

Because Shawn Spencer was also charismatic. He had a way of drawing people in, making them trust him when it was the last thing they should do. He was exciting and passionate and exuberant. A hundred years ago, people would have called him a rake or a libertine. Now, people just called him fun.

In short, he was everything Carlton's younger brother had been before he'd left without so much as a note to let them know where he was headed. He loved his brother. Oh, they hadn't always gotten along, but family meant loving someone even if you didn't always want to. And now there was Spencer, bring back those memories of those first horrifying months when they'd stayed awake waiting for a call from the police or a hospital. The months that followed when the realization that he'd done this on purpose was almost worse than the fear. Spencer, who blithely glided through life, acting completely ignorant of the pain he'd caused his father and so called best friend by leaving them for a string of menial jobs and 'adventure'. There was no reason to try and like something that was just going to leave. And men like Spencer, like his brother, always left.

The real reason, the only reason Carlton would never admit to, why he hated Shawn Spencer was because he made him remember.

* * *

Kristin: I promise I'm not just pulling stuff out of my ass here. In the blog Tim Omundson writes as Lassie, he talks about his younger brother, a surfer type who ran off to possibly South America without telling anyone. (http:/www[dot]usanetwork[dot]com/series/psych/blogs/lassiter13[dot]html) Kristin Brand Fanfiction, now with 60% more citations!

Also, I'm thinking that I'm going to start staggering posts instead of just slapping stuff up as I finish it. That way if real life gets in the way and I don't have time to write, I'll still have some new material. **Opinions?**

21/100


	21. 67 Playing the Melody

67. Playing the Melody

* * *

From his spot in the back corner of the dim blues club, Shawn watched the singer sway closer to the microphone, her fingers curling around the stand, as the music started to swell. "_I heard church bells ringing. I heard a choir singing. I saw my love walk down the aisle, on her finger he placed a ring_." Shawn leaned a little closer, noting the moisture at the corners of her eyes and the small looks she kept darting toward the man who had served him his vodka and pineapple juice. "_Oh, I saw them holding hands. She was standing there with my man_."

Shawn blinked and tucked that information away for maybe later-the girl had stunning blue eyes and rebound sex was still sex-when he saw the couple walking though the front door. Was that Lassie? With his collar undone and his sleeves rolled up and his hair unshellacked? Wearing a deep blue shirt that Shawn suddenly wanted to offer his first born to, because _hello!_ look at what it was doing to his eyes?

Was it possible to swoon manfully?

Wait a minute…couple? Was that a woman? The hell? What was Lassie doing here with a woman?

They hadn't noticed him and he shift further into the shadows so that it'd stay that way. He didn't recognize the woman, but Lassie's hand was at the small of her back, guiding her toward a table, his head tilted down toward hers.

He gripped his glass tightly, ignoring the sudden dizziness that had nothing to do with alcohol.

They looked good together. Too tense for this to have been anything but a first date, but she looked pretty and wholesome and it was picture perfect and so incredibly _wrong._

He drained his drink, his eyes narrowed on Lassie and that..._woman _he was with.

Shawn waited until That Woman got up from the table and headed toward the restroom before he made his way over to Lassiter's side. He plastered his biggest grin on his face and smacked the detective on the shoulder with a loud, "Lassie!" Lassiter was instantly in defense mode, halfway out of his seat before Shawn's voice and face registered and he sank back down with a scowl.

"Spencer. What are you doing here? Actually, you know what, I don't care, just get the hell away from me," he said, his voice all low and growly with annoyance. Shawn smiled wider and told himself that, since he wasn't a thirteen year old girl, he had _not_ gone a little weak in the knees from the other man's tone and the only reason why he was falling into the bitch's vacated seat was because Lassie hadn't manhandled him, which meant he wasn't really serious when he said to go away. What he'd really meant was 'Oh Shawn, how lovely to see you. Why don't you sit down in the-bitch-I-came-with's chair, keep me company, and maybe climb in my lap when she gets back so she knows who I belong to.'

The thing with Lassie was that you had to know how to read him. Shawn ignored the scowl aimed his way and poked suspiciously at the bitch's day glow pink drink.

He most certainly wasn't blushing, but he waved a distracting hand around with just a hint of spirit fingers, not that that sort of thing had ever really worked on Lassie before.

"Oh, you know," Shawn said, adding a second hand to the show, "Just taking in a bit of local color. Heard there was a singer here who could give Dinah Washington a run for her money."

As if on cue, the woman on stage crescendoed, her voice sounding too tired to give the lines the fervor they needed. "_I was just, I was just, I was just sitting here thinking of your kiss and your warm embrace when the reflection in the glass that I held to my lips now, baby, revealed the tears that was on my face_."

Shawn grimaced and let his hands fall to his lap. "Too bad she's shit at Etta James. Of course," he added, unable to resist showing off, "she could just be upset about her recent break up with the bartender."

Lassiter arched an eyebrow, not taking the bait, his lips twisted in a disbelieving almost smile. "_You _listen to blues?"

Shawn stretched out in the chair, legs crossed at the ankle and hands behind his head. He flashed his best flirtatious look. "I'm a complex man, Lassie. I have all sorts of secrets and hidden depths." The eyebrow rose a little higher and Shawn laughed. "Or it might be that I served drinks at a live music place when I lived in New Orleans. Jazz, blues, big band, swing. After a while, it starts to get under your ears."

"Under your skin," Lassie corrected, the almost smile smoothing into a thin line as if he'd suddenly remembered who he was with.

"I've heard it both ways," Shawn shrugged, then leaned forward and gave Lassie his best you-can-trust-me look. "So, she looked like a sweet bit of pineapple." Actually, she'd looked more like a head detective stealing whore. "You two on a date?"

Lassie's face went blank in that way it always did when he was trying to figure out what Shawn was up to. Come to think of it, his you-can-trust-me look was another thing that never seemed to work on Lassie. The silence stretched uncomfortably long.

"_There's something on your mind, baby, by the way you look at me, and what you're thinking brings happiness, oh and it brings misery_," the woman sang, her voice more confident on the new song and Shawn watched her, trying to decide whether he needed to reevaluate his initial dismissal of her, before turning back toward Lassiter.

"I'm not here to ruin your night, Lassie." That Woman's, maybe, but not Lassie's. "Saw you over here and thought I'd come keep you from getting lonely while your date's in the bathroom." Shawn frowned, mentally reviewed the songs the band had played since the mystery date had disappeared, and peeked at his watch. "And it's good thing I did, because she's been in there forever."

Lassiter frowned and looked at his own watch, then rubbed a rough hand over his face and downed the finger of scotch in his glass. "You have got to be kidding me," he groaned.

Shawn looked quizzically at Lassie and leaned back to peer down the short hallway to the bathroom. The bathroom that was right next to the back exit. Oh, that _bitch_. Who did she think she was, walking out on his Lassie, as if he wasn't good enough! She was such a, such a...

"Bitch!"

Lassiter looked momentarily shocked by Shawn's indignation, but after a second his lips curled back into that almost smile and he waved his hand in a what-can-you-do sort of way.

"It's not that big of a loss. The entire evening's been a disaster. She's anti-guns, thinks history's a waste of time, and on our way here she actually asked me if Duke Ellington was related to Queen Elizabeth," Lassie said with a wince. Shawn blinked, then burst out in inappropriately loud laughter. Lassiter glared and kicked his ankle. "Shut it, Spencer. You're making more noise than the band. Do you want to get kicked out?"

Shawn reined in his laughter and batted his eyelashes at Lassie. "Aw, Lassie, would you be sad to see me go?"

"Hardly, Spencer," Lassiter snorted and shook his head, but his mouth had softened into the beginnings of a real smile. And maybe Shawn _was_ a thirteen year old girl, because that made his breath catch, his stomach flip, and his face burn. He grinned so wide that it hurt. Fluttered his hands as he claimed the abandoned pink drink. Kept his demeanor easy breezy. Focused on the music instead of what that smile was doing to certain parts of his anatomy.

"..._he may not be the man some girls think of as handsome, but to my heart he carries the key_." He either hated or loved that girl and he doubted he'd figure it out by the end of her set.

"You so would, Lassie! I can see it," he said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of his head.

"Spencer," Lassiter growled in warning.

"Come on, Lassie, don't be an epileptic bunny. We're actually getting along pretty good for once-"

"This is what you call us getting along?"

"-and I say we go with it," Shawn continued as if Lassie hadn't spoken. "After all, your plans just fell through, and these already were my plans. If we're both going to be here, we might as well be here together." Shawn relaxed back into his chair and smiled, a genuine one, not the nearly manic grin he'd been wearing since he'd walked over.

Lassie looked at him suspiciously and Shawn did his best to radiate innocent sincerity. Reliable, trustworthy, true blue. That was him. Why was Lassie just looking at him? Did he have something on his face? Did Lassie not like his face? Okay, that might have been borderline ridiculous because obviously he was gorgeous. Ohpleasedon'tlethimleave. Sweat was starting to bead at his hairline when Lassie finally nodded. It was hesitant and just once, but it was a nod.

"Great!" Shawn beamed and waved Lassie's empty glass at him. "Can I buy you another?"

On stage, the singer crooned sweetly. "_When you smile, you smile, oh, and then the spell was cast, and here we are in heaven for you are mine at last_."

* * *

Kristin: I'm on a _**HUGE**_ Etta James kick right now, which means you guys get BluesLoving!Lassie and Shawn. Doing a songfic makes me feel like I'm about twelve again.

Lyrics don't belong to me. Songs, in order of appearance, are:

"All I Could Do Was Cry", "I'd Rather Go Blind", "There's Something On Your Mind", "Someone To Watch Over Me", and "At Last"

Feedback would be overwhelmingly appreciated.

22/100


	22. 76 Broken Pieces

76. Broken Pieces

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

It's not a question, not exactly. He knows what's going on. He has eyes, doesn't he? He's not so fucking stupid that he can't figure it out, but the words slip out anyway. His voice sounds eerily calm in his ears.

The first few seconds were numbed by shock, but now he feels the anger. Pain. A ripping, tearing hurt that's rapidly clawing him apart.

Because Shawn is there naked in their bed. And he's not alone.

The girl looks scared. Scared of him. Probably because of whatever she sees on his face. He doesn't care. He doesn't think he's ever hated anyone as much as he hates her in this moment. He wants to take his gun from it's holster and pull the trigger, fire bullet after bullet, until her features are unrecognizable.

He clenches his hands at his sides. Knuckles white. Fights the urge. Fights the bile rising in his throat. Fights the questions rising with the bile. Why? How? When? _Why_?

He doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to hear the answers. Doesn't want to be seeing this. What he wants is to forget, rewind the clock to yesterday when everything was full of happy, warm, promise. When everything was right.

Shawn's scrambling out of the bed-_their_ bed-doesn't bother to cover up. There's a mark on his neck that he knows he didn't make. He closes his eyes, but he can still see it. Can still see the small, shocked smile frozen on Shawn's swollen lips.

"Lassie…"

The voice is close, too close. His eyes snap open. Shawn's there, wobbling a bit. He smells like perfume and sweat and musk and alcohol. There's alcohol on his breath. That doesn't make it okay. Doesn't make this any better. Because there's alcohol on his breath, but there's also lipstick under his ear. Under his ear, above the mark.

Shawn lifts a shaking hand toward him, but he backs away. Steps on something that shifts. Looks down at a scrap of lace peeking out from under his shoe. Underwear. Looks expensive. He wants to grind it under his heel. Instead, he kicks it toward the corner where the girl is struggling into a skimpy party dress and looking everywhere but at them.

Shawn swallows. He can hear it. Can see his adams apple bob.

He wants to scream. Wants to cry run break something shoot something do anything that isn't staying in this room that smells like sex.

Shawn takes a step toward him, gets a hand on his arm this time. Even through the layers of his shirt and jacket, the touch burns. His other arm draws back. The fist stops just short of Shawn's face. He drops it, draws away from Shawn's hand. He can't touch him. Not even to hurt him. Can't touch him. Can barely look at him.

The girl's disappeared, but Shawn's standing there, making small pleading sounds.

"Lassie-"

His hand's in the space between them, flat, palm toward Shawn. He didn't move it, but it's there.

"You brought her into our house. Into our bed." That's not his voice. His voice isn't that cold. Even with convicts, his voice doesn't sound like that. That's not his voice. He knows it isn't, but the words are coming from his mouth. "Some random _whore_. Here. Our home, Shawn. What were you thinking? _Were_ you thinking?"

"Lassie, please. I love you." Shawn's eyes are wide, desperate.

"I trusted you."

He turns and stumbles into the hallway where he doesn't have to smell the sex. See the rumpled sheets. The sheen of sweat still clinging to Shawn's body. The mark at his throat.

Shawn is behind him. His breathing is loud, more pants than anything. Now his voice is desperate too.

"Lassie. Carlton. Carlton, please. It was a mistake. I was drunk and it was so stupid and her eyes are the same as yours and, and _please_, Carlton. Please, Carlton, let me make this better. Tell me what I have to do to make this better."

"No." His voice cracks on the word. Clears his throat. Tastes the bile. Tries again.

"No, Shawn." Better. Steadier. Firmer. Oh God, what is he doing? "You can't fix this."

* * *

Kristin: I don't know how I feel about the writing on this one. It was definitely a big step outside of my comfort zone and I probably struggled with it more than any of the others. If you only review one theme, please let it be this one. I'd really appreciate getting someone else's opinion on it.

As far as Shawn's cheating goes, well, I tend to have the somewhat pessimistic mindset that anyone is capable of anything, it's just a matter of controlling the impulse to go through with it. Shawn's shown that he has impulse control problems during the show, and I think it's plausible that those problems coupled with alcohol could lead to his cheating. I don't think he's a bad person, but I do think he has a history of making very bad decisions.

PeanutTree- Thank you so much for the kind words and taking the time to review! I'm glad you're enjoying them. :D

23/100


	23. 56 Danger Ahead

Kristin: This is a companion piece to Broken Pieces.

56. Danger Ahead

* * *

They've had plenty of fights worse than this one. Hell, half of the time it seems like their entire relationship is based off of fighting. Or maybe it's based on make up sex. Shawn really doesn't know anymore.

They've had worse fights, but Shawn gets the feeling that he pushed this one too far. It's hard when it comes to Lassie. Hard to hold himself back. Everything he says provokes such an explosive response that he just wants to keep taunting and prodding until Lassie's puce and screaming in his face. Because after the puce, there are frantic hands and hot, biting mouths and completely different screams and maybe a few carpet burns to embarrass Gus with.

Most of the time that's how it goes. Tonight isn't one of those times. Tonight, just as they're screaming out every insecurity and flaw that they've learned about each other in their years together, Lassie gets the call to come into the station. So instead of sex and apologies and pineapple chunks in bed, Shawn's left with a cold, hard ball of anger in his stomach and the implication that nobody in their right mind other than Lassie would ever want to be with him if they knew how damaged he is.

He's on his sixth shot when the girl approaches him. Her hair is blond, but her eyes are Lassie blue. He smiles.

She wants him. He wants to prove that he can have her. Flirting isn't the same as cheating. It's harmless. Just an ego boost.

He's forgotten how many shots they've done and is way too drunk to drive his motorcycle, so when she offers a ride, he lets her take him home.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

Oh God.

_No_.

* * *

Kristin: Broken Pieces was supposed to be a stand alone piece, but that didn't last too long. I was going to blame this on gnbrules, who seems to be developing the habit of letting me talk and therefore ramble my way into new ideas, but a couple hours later when PeanutTree made the comment about them being in a fight, I knew it was fate. *insert angel chorus here* Also, PeanutTree? Get out of my head. It probably isn't safe. It's full of plot holes and Mary Sues. And of course you got a shout out, dear. Your PM is disabled and my good Southern upbringing dictates that I simply _must _say thank you. ;)

24/100


	24. 73 I Can't

73. I Can't

* * *

"I can't do this."

Carlton freezes in the kitchen doorway, his gun holster halfway off. Victoria is hunched on a stool by the island with her face buried in her hands. When he doesn't say anything, she looks up. There are tears on her face and she swallows once, twice, three times before speaking again.

"I hate it, Carlton. I try and I try and I try, but I just can't do this."

The holster slips down to suddenly nerveless fingers, catches for a second, and falls to the ground. He swallows back his fear and paranoia and manages to keep his voice steady.

"Can't do what, sweetheart?"

Victoria looks at him like he's lost his mind and gestures at the kitchen counters.

For the first time, he notices the mess that not even the most generous critic would have called food.

The cold dread that had curled in the pit of his stomach at his new bride's words eases. He wants to laugh with relief, but she looks so distraught that he keeps his expression serious as he circles the island to pull her off of her stool and into his arms.

"It's just so stupid, Carlton." Her head is tense on his shoulder, her breath warm against the patches of his neck where it's managed to slip under his collar. "All you have to do is follow a stupid recipe. I should be able to follow a recipe!"

Carlton makes vague soothing noises and smooths his hands down the curve of her spine, which has always seemed to calm her in the past. After a few minutes, she's still sniffly, but much more relaxed. He can't resist the urge to tease her a little.

"I didn't marry you for your culinary prowess, you know. If I'd wanted a cook, I'd have married Janie Turner when she asked me."

Victoria snaps her head up to glare at him. "When who did what now?"

Who knew a glare could be so cute? He presses a quick kiss at the corner of her pursed mouth. "Oh, I told you about her. Sweet girl. Brought me cakes all the time."

He relaxes his grip a little as Victoria leans back in the circle of his arms to frown harder. She's trying to be intimidating and that's just adorable, but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning and ruining his Serious face.

"You've never told me about her." Victoria says accusingly.

"Didn't I?" He asks, pretending to be puzzled. "I'm certain I would have at some point. After all, we were pretty serious. We were together for almost all of third grade." Victoria's jaw drops in disbelief and he grins. "She was a whiz with an Easy Bake oven."

Victoria rolls her eyes and swats at his chest. Carlton chuckles and pulls her in tighter, kissing her, light and teasing, over and over until her mouth is pliant and laughing beneath his.

He smiles against her lips. He can't imagine his life without this woman.

"So, should we order Chinese or pizza," he asks as his wife shifts to nuzzle her face into the crook of his neck.

"Surprise me."

* * *

Kristin: Is that some Carlton/Victoria I see there? Why, yes, I believe it is. I can't remember ever seeing anything that showed the two of them together before their marriage failed, so I thought I'd give it a shot. Also, I just plain like writing happy, in love Lassie. I'd like to think that he was a _hell_ of a lot less bitter before the separation/divorce. Not a constant beam of sunshine or anything, but happier. Feedback, as always, would be amazing.

I wasn't planning on posting this until tomorrow, but I started watching Criminal Minds a few days ago and just saw the sixth episode, L.D.S.K, which has Surprise!Evil!Tim Omundson. I squeed, fangirled, and decided to post an extra Lassie fic.

Oh snap, look at the numbers! 1/4th of the way through. Twenty-five in nine days. It's amazing what you can accomplish with little to no sleep.

25/100


	25. 52 Sport

51. Sport

* * *

A lot of different people called him a lot of different things. Detective, Lassie, sir, Booker, you bastard, Lassiter, Binky. Occasionally someone would even go a little crazy and call him Carlton.

When he walked into the rundown dive that night, the last thing in the world he expected was to hear another name that hadn't been on that list for decades. The older man sat down next to him at the bar, but Carlton ignored him until he spoke, his voice rough and almost but not quite familiar.

"It's been a long time, sport."

All it took was that one word and it was like being transported back in time. For a second his head spun and he felt as light and free as he had as a small child. Only for a second, though, because then he came crashing back down with all the memories of his mother crying and every missed event and his carefully maintained anger. Carlton turned slowly on the stool and looked at an aged, barely recognizable face.

"Dad."

* * *

Kristin: It's sooooo short, but I posted twice yesterday, so I feel pretty okay about that. I'm sure I took this prompt in a completely different direction than I was intended to, but I feel pretty okay about that too. This will possibly have at least one more part added on to it. You know, as soon as I figure out what's about to happen.

PeanutTree-Thank you! You're a flatterer and I love it. ;)

26/100


	26. 68 Hero

68. Hero

* * *

It wasn't something Gus had planned or anything. It wasn't like it was a _date_. But when Juliet had mentioned that she was ordering all her comics online because she hadn't had time to find a local shop that wasn't run by someone who creeped her out, Gus had offered to show her his. His comic book shop, that is. Well, not _his_, because he didn't own it, but his in the sense that he was there at least once a week.

Jasper's Comics was a Santa Barbara institution. It seemed like nobody could remember a time when it hadn't been there. Jasper Baker, the owner, was a petite, well put together old man who was always behind the counter, called every woman 'young lady', never forgot a name, and looked like he'd belong more as a curator at a stuffy old museum than sitting in a comic book store. He was the sort of man who at first glance didn't look like he'd ever seen a book that wasn't leather bound with gold engraved letters, and if he had he would definitely Not Approve.

Jules immediately adored him and it seemed that the feeling was mutual. Within ten minutes, they'd already made plans to meet the next day over tea-"Can you believe it, Gus? He actually has _tea_. Not the drink, the meal! That's so cute!"-to continue their conversation about Francis Tiller's negative portrayal of women in his comics.

After fifteen minutes of intelligently rebuking all of his arguments and one flash of her tiny, wounded kitten expression, she had Kyle Lench agreeing that Seaman was horribly underrated by ignorant people who didn't actually research his full powers. The same Kyle who religiously updated his blog entitled 'Keep Our Comics Free Of Seaman' every Tuesday and Thursday.

Thirty minutes later she was laughing with Janine, who was in charge of inventory and stocking the shelves. They exchanged convention horror stories, outdoing each other on everything from costume malfunctions to panelist breakdowns. Juliet's Red Phantom/Green Spirit case won hands down and the subject shifted to their favorite Z-Men characters. Juliet liked Duskwalker, but Janine preferred Seraph.

She flitted easily around Gus' shop, looking comfortable and at home, examining everything and talking to everyone, but after the first half hour or so, Gus wasn't really listening to the actual words anymore. He just leaned back against the counter by Jasper, tried to calm the weird fluttering that was going on low in his stomach, told himself that he really needed to put the vintage Yellow Torch comic he was looking at back in its sleeve before his hands got it all sweaty, and watched her fit so effortlessly into this part of his life. When Jasper called Juliet 'a remarkable young lady', all Gus could do was smile and offer a soft 'You know that's right.' in agreement.

As they were heading out the door, because Jules had just made Lenny cry by casually pointing out that he was wrong-Jane Green was originally called Miracle Girl, not Ms. Miracle like Lenny had loudly and vehemently asserted, because _everyone_ knew that Ms. Miracle was Cheryl Donner-and you really can't stay somewhere after an incident like that, he offered to carry her shopping bag and held out his arm for her. When she took it, he felt a thrill run up his spine and couldn't stop himself from grinning down at her while she raved about the store.

As soon as he could convince her that it was a good idea, he was going to marry this woman.

* * *

Kristin: Gus and Jules make me smile in a way that Shawn and Jules probably _never_ will. Their love is so geeky and adorable. And yes, I am a huge nerd. Thanks for noticing. :D Since we know that in Psychworld the comics aren't the same as ours, I took the liberty of doing a few parodies. And the Seaman thing? Yeah, apparently I sometimes channel a twelve year old boy. *snickers* Seaman…

A lot of this is based off of conversations that I've had in real life. Aquaman _is_ given a bum rap. Yes, he talks to guppies, but he's also invulnerable to machine gun fire. And I am very much not a Frank Miller fan. I have Opinions about him, most of which spawn from the fact that he treats women like over simplified plot devices with breasts, not actual people. That's not on, Mr. Miller. For another female perspective on Miller and blatant sexism in comics, try the blog Girls Read Comics(and they're pissed).

It's all great, but here's the first post- http:/girl-wonder[dot]org/girlsreadcomics/?p=9

And a personal favorite of mine-http:/girl-wonder[dot]org/girlsreadcomics/?p=14

For a comic that shows how female superheros _should_ be treated, check out-http:/www[dot]uniquescomic[dot]com/

Because that? That is freaking amazing. Nice, three dimensional characters with realistic personalities, motivations, and costumes/bodies. It isn't about fanservice, it's about telling a solid story with believable leads. I have so much love for Comfort Love and Adam Withers(the creators)that it isn't even funny.

/Geeky!Feminist!Kristin

27/100


	27. 81 Pen and Paper

81. Pen and Paper

* * *

Dear Lassie,

I ended up spending Christmas wandering around Rockefeller Center. Saw the Rockettes, oooed and awed over the big tree, went ice skating, did all of that touristy stuff. I even made a special trip to Times Square just to ride the ferris wheel in the Toys"R"Us. A ferris wheel in a toy store. How awesome is that? I spent New Years at some crappy bar with a sawdust covered floor. If Patrick Swayze had been there, I would have sworn it was the Double Deuce! Don't worry though. When the ball dropped, I didn't kiss anyone. Unless you count your picture.

I don't know how long I'm going to be here. I got a job ushering at a theater, which is nice since I get to watch the show. Of course, you can only see The Vagina Monologues so many times before it starts to make you a little crazy, but it's free and you know how I feel about free things.

It feels like the entire city is crawling with manly Irish cops. Half the time it makes me smile and the other half it makes me want to cry.

It's January, I'm in New York, and I love you.

Dear Lassie,

Have you ever fantasized about me in a gladiator's costume? Don't lie, you know you have! And we both know I totally have the legs for it. My knees alone are phenomenal. My calves inspire sonnets. There are arias dedicated to my thighs. And now I get to flaunt them all the time because some casino hired me to stand around at night doing nothing but pose for pictures in a silly costume. Lassie, it's like this job was _made_ for me. I'm about to go off break, so I need to find my spear and magic helmet.

I'm putting a picture of me in costume, my winner-autographed program from the Frank Sinatra impersonator contest, and the first chip someone tipped me in with this letter.

It's March, I'm in Las Vegas, and I love you.

Dear Lassie,

I'm working in the casino on an Alaskan cruise line for the summer. Looks like I just can't get away from the gambling, right? It's gorgeous and there's tons of free food. I spend most of my time dealing poker and the rest just bumming around on deck. Occasionally I go on shore. Last time I saw a moose that reminded me of you. Nothing big, just something in it's pissed off expression.

When we're out on the water, the early morning sky is the same clear, pale blue as your eyes. It's so big and vast that most mornings I feel like I could get lost in it. And I want to lose myself in it, Lassie. I want to pull it down and wrap it around me like a blanket to keep out the cold.

And now I'm spouting poetry! Must be all this unhealthy clean air. That crap will give you cancer or something.

It's June, I'm near Anchorage, and I love you.

Dear Lassie,

Leading tours of the Grand Canyon this month. They kicked me out of Texas after I announced that I'm a fan of miniatures and not killing people in zappy chairs. It's hot here, but it's a great chance to work on my tan. It makes me look even more gorgeous. I wish you were here to see it.

Another one of the tour guides, Kelly, has been flirting with me. I haven't done anything. She's nice and all-pretty smile, good hair, unremarkable eyes-but the thought of touching her or her touching me makes me feel sick. There's only you, Lassie. I know what you told me, but there's only you. I think that for the rest of my life there might only be you.

There was a family here the other day who brought their collie with them. Her name was Carly. I think I handled it pretty well. They only saw me laugh. Thank God moisture evaporates so damn fast out here, right?

Sheesh, I think the heat and the dry air are making me super sentimental!

It's August, I'm in Arizona, and I love you.

Dear Lassie,

It's been exactly a year since I've seen you. A year since I've heard your voice. A year since the night I left Santa Barbara.

I'm home. Well, not home, because it will never be home again, but I'm in town. Henry and Gus and Jules say that it's the healthy thing to do. They think I need to find closure and can't do that anywhere but here. They don't understand. I miss you so goddamned much it hurts, Lassie. It hurts all the fucking time and there's nothing I can do to change it. It's just this constant, burning, excruciating pain in my gut. In my heart. In all of my major organs, really. Every time I close my eyes, I see that night and wonder what I could have done to stop it. What did I miss? I know I must have missed something.

They don't understand that when I come back here I don't remember, I expect. When I'm in a strange city filled with people and places I don't know, I can sit down and close my eyes and remember your smile or the warmth of your breath on my neck or that sigh you would make when I touched that one spot just above your right hipbone. They're memories that usually make me want to cry, but they make things bearable. They make me remember what you made me promise. They keep me from going crazy. From giving up.

Then I come back to Santa Barbara and everywhere I go, I expect to see you. I go to our coffee shop and expect to see you in line. At the station, every moment is spent holding my breath, expecting to run into you behind every corner. I drove by our house this afternoon and cried because you weren't there. It's like Donny without Marie. Cheech without Chong. Hall without Oates. I'm peanut butter without my jelly.

I can't stay here. An old friend of mine has a place in Hong Kong. He says he can fix me up with a job gutting fish or something. I don't know, I'll figure it out when I get there. Maybe if I'm on the other side of the world, it won't hurt so much.

I don't want to hurt anymore, Lassie. I almost don't even want to love you anymore. But only almost and only sometimes.

I miss you.

It's now exactly 9:38pm on October 27th, I'm in the alley where I last held you, and I love you.

* * *

Kristin: Okay, my lovelies, here's the deal. After tomorrow's update, I'll have officially run through the backlog of extra stories that I wrote during my first few days working on this challenge and real life is hitting me hard. The non-tl;dr version is that I've been having some very personal problems and ended up physically collapsing on Monday night. I'm drained and busy and, after tomorrow, updates are most likely going to be slower for a while.

For those not in the know, Double Deuce was the bar Patrick Swayze worked at as a bouncer in Road House. I'm not sure how common of a practice it is, but writing letters to a deceased loved one is used by some people to help them work through their grief. Also, I totally plan to get a collie and name it Carlton someday.

Comments always help brighten my day.

28/100


	28. 95 Advertisement

95. Advertisement

* * *

A selection of excerpts from the Santa Barbara Times' personal ads from the dates of September 25 to October 4.

September 25

WM seeking nonpigheaded WM who won't freak out because of a little harmless flirtation. The insecure need not apply. Must like pineapples.

September 26

WM seeking WM who doesn't throw himself at anything with a pulse. Must be responsible, reliable, and not committing a crime by pretending to be psychic.

September 27

WM seeking WM who believes in his totally amazing psychic abilities. WM needs to get over himself and own up to how much WM helps WM.

September 28

WM would have a much easier time getting over himself if WM trusted WM enough to not lie.

September 29

Maybe WM would trust WM more if WM hadn't repeatedly threatened to have WM arrested.

September 30

WM wouldn't really arrest WM. Not anymore. But WM would be willing to bring home the handcuffs.

October 1

WM wasn't really interested in SWF. WM just likes to joke around. The handcuffs and the civil war costume at the same time?

October 2

WM is only looking for a little consideration. WM hates it when WM jokes around. Civil War UNIFORM. And maybe. WM is willing to discuss it.

October 3

SS seeking loyal, forgiving blue eyed companion to keep SS from falling down wells or getting shot. SS can be considerate. SS wants to stop fighting. And it's totally a costume.

October 4

CL seeking SS. Just come home. The pineapple misses you.

* * *

Kristin: And that's it for the reserves. Now to find time to flesh out the handful of outlines that are cluttering my hard drive. WM is White Male and SWF is Single White Female. Just in case you've never seen/heard those before. SS and CL should be self explanatory.

PeanutTree-Thanks and thanks. ^.^

29/100


	29. 2 Love

2. Love

* * *

The day Henry finally decided that he was going to marry Madeleine was a bright, sunny Saturday. They were out on his boat-an old piece of junk that he'd picked up at a scrap yard and rebuilt the summer before his senior year of high school-fishing.

Henry didn't know where she'd found them, but her t-shirt and cut offs were old and looked like a strong breeze would make them come apart at the seams. The most substantial things about them were probably the stains. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail and the spray had smudged what little makeup she was wearing. When he handed her the worm to put on her hook, she barely grimaced at all. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his life and she was glaring at him.

"Henry, if you don't stop telling me what to do, I'm going to push you off the boat." Madeleine said evenly, her hands on her hips. Henry blinked and nodded slowly.

"Okay, you're upset and I get that. I'll stop. But can I just say that if you move your right hand down a li-"

Splash!

He broke the water's surface, sputtering and shocked. Above him, Madeleine was laughing. The sun lit her up from behind, turning her blonde hair into a halo. It made her look deceptively angelic and she was _laughing _about the fact that she'd just pushed him off of his own boat for trying to help her.

The next day, he bought the ring.

* * *

Kristin: I needed something to break up the Shassie. Because there's still a fair bit of Shassie on the way. The boys have crawled into my head and set up house.

PeanutTree- Thank you! They are silly, silly boys who need to work on their communication skills. :D (ps I always want to call you PearTree. Is that weird?)

30/100


	30. 16 Questioning

16. Questioning

* * *

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

"Lassifrass?"

Lassiter looked up from the work he'd brought home with him and peered around his computer screen so he could see his boyfr-his Shawn. Shawn was sprawled out on the couch, idly sliding a metal slinky from palm to palm, and looking reflectively at his bare chest. That was weird. Not the Shawn being half naked thing-that happened all the time. But he had no idea where the slinky had come from. Lassiter had never owned one in his life and he knew that Shawn hadn't had it on him when he'd arrived. Weird.

Clink.

"What?"

"Does it ever make you sad that I don't have boobs?" Clink. "Because I'm fine with the fact that you don't have boobs."

Lassiter gaped at him. "_What_?"

Shawn was still looking down at his chest, the corners of his mouth turned down in a small frown.

Clink.

"Boobs, Lassie. You know, those fun things girls have. Does it ever make you sad that I don't have them?" Clink. Clink. "Because I know that you were used to them and they can be addictive and if you have an addiction, I think I should know about it so that I can start planning the theme for the intervention. I'm thinking Mexican fiesta, but what are your feelings on The Facts of Life?" Clink. Clink. "Maybe we could find a Mrs. Garret impersonator to lead things. Are there Mrs. Garret impersonators?"

Clink.

"Shawn." Lassiter said. Shawn didn't look at him and the frown was definitely a little worried.

Clink.

"Shawn." He tried again, this time a little more firmly. Shawn was staring at his slinky now, but his head was tilted toward Carlton. "I don't care that you don't have boobs. You're fine the way you are."

Clink.

He was still frowning.

Clink.

"Shawn," he said quietly, "We're fine. You and me? Us? It's all fine. More than fine, even. It's borderline perfect."

Clink.

Clink.

"I'm happy with you, Shawn."

Shawn didn't say anything, but the frown eased and he nodded once. Lassiter turned back to his work.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

"Hey, Lassipants?"

Carlton bit back a sigh. He was never going to finish at this rate.

Clink.

"What, Spencer," he growled, peeking out from behind his computer again. The leer Shawn flashed him was downright obscene.

"You wanna play with my slinky?"

Clink.

* * *

Kristin: Oh, Shawn. You are a silly, insecure man. "You wanna play with my slinky" is possibly the worst innuendo in the history of ever. Not entirely happy with this one, but Friday was One Of Those Days and I needed some levity in my life.

PeanutTree-That sounds like quite a story. I think it's just a disconnect for me because I used to live across from a peanut field, so I keep thinking 'wait...peanuts don't grow on trees'. But since when do usernames have to make sense? Thanks! It seems like most people either ignore their relationship or only focus on the negative, so I wanted to do something different.

31/100


	31. 27 Foreign

27. Foreign

* * *

He isn't used to living with someone else anymore.

It's strange, made stranger by the facts that his new roommate-bedmate? lover? domestic partner?-has a penchant for singing Divinyls medleys in the shower, covertly replacing his high fiber cereal with Sugar Puffs(Now with 90% more sugar! It's the puffiest!), and rearranging his carefully alphabetized dvds in order of 'kickassery'.

He isn't used to living with someone else. Not since he left home, anyways.

It's strange, made stranger by the facts that his, well, his boyfriend apparently likes to snuggle in his sleep, is always filling the Tivo with boring history shows, and actually expects the dishes to be washed before they run out of clean forks.

Neither of them are used to this and it's strange.

* * *

Kristin: Happy Easter, darlings! Because I love you and hate my mental health, you guys are getting a double update for the holiday. (It helps that they're tiny, so they weren't a horrible strain to write.) Woo! On the down side, I have a HUGE assignment for one of my music classes due on Monday, so tomorrow's update might be really late/nonexistent. Boo. :(

As a side note, living with other people kind of weirds me out, especially after the time I spent living by myself.

PeanutTree-I spent most of my formative years near Dothan, Alabama. About half of the peanuts sold in the US are grown within 100 miles of there. They also have an annual peanut festival during the first week of November, so I guess that could be your holy week? ;) I will never look at a slinky the same way again and I have no one to blame for that but myself.

32/100


	32. 85 Spiral

**Double update for Easter! Click back a chapter if you came straight here.**

85. Spiral

* * *

It's the same. Every hour, day, week, month, year; it's all the same. They're a broken record, continually skipping along on the same notes. It's routine, mechanical. A set of mindless actions to go through so that they don't have to think. They have their parts and they play them well.

Push. Taunt. Tease. Scream. Pull. Hurt. Accuse. Betray. Enrage.

They ache to come together and force themselves apart. It's a loop that they've been stuck in since the day they met and nothing can pull them out of it. At their cores, they're both men of logic, and this _thing_ between them is too instinctive, too primal to really trust. So they don't. Instead they just keep going and going, terrified that there might be more.

More. Always more. More feeling. More wanting. More needing. More craving. More yearning.

More to life.

More to lose.

Carlton's been left too many times and Shawn can never bring himself to stay. So they fall back into the same cycle, endlessly circling each other, and neither makes a move.

* * *

Kristin: It seems like the more I write, the more uncertain I feel about the results. I'm not sure what corner of my brain this came from. If it sucks as badly as I'm afraid it might, I'm going to pretend I had nothing to do with it. Comments? Please?

33/100


	33. 29 Happiness

29. Happiness

* * *

Buzz had always known he wanted to be a cop, but here he was barely a month into the job and he really didn't know how much longer he could take it. It had seemed like such a good idea. Stop the bad guys, save the innocent. He just hadn't really thought about how he would deal with the ones he couldn't save.

He leaned over the sink and splashed a couple of handfuls of cool water on his face, roughly scrubbing it dry with a paper towel.

The latest victim had only been nine and he couldn't get her glazed, lifeless eyes out of his mind. She was just a baby. Who would do something like that to a baby?

The world was full of so much hatred and anger and filth. There was no way he could even put a dent in it. Buzz dropped his face into his hands, burying his still damp fingers in his hair. He wanted to sob, could physically feel it building in the back of his throat, but managed to suppress it down to a choked sounding cough when he heard the bathroom door open. He saw Detective Lassiter out of the corner of his eye and gave a jerky half nod, although the older man didn't seem to notice him.

Buzz knew he should probably leave-blatantly loitering in a bathroom with your superior there couldn't be a good idea-but he couldn't quite bring himself to leave the relative quiet for the insane bustle of the rest of the station. He stayed where he was, not even moving when Lassiter came over to use the sink next to his. His head was bowed, but he didn't miss the narrow, assessing look that Lassiter gave him while he dried his hands.

"Hard day. It's McNab, right?"

"Yes, sir," Buzz said, both agreeing about the day and confirming his name. He straightened slowly and turned to face Lassiter. The detective was frowning, but he didn't look angry. It was almost…concern? "Sir?"

Lassiter openly studied him for a moment and cleared his throat. "This job will wear on you if you let it. We deal with a lot of shit. Not everyone's cut out for it, but you do good work. Give it some time. I think you're going to do fine."

Buzz rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around the room, suddenly feeling even more awkward. He opened his mouth, grasping for the right words, closed it, chewed the inside of his cheek, opened it again. "How do you deal with it, sir? I have dreams, nightmares…"

The detective leaned his hip against the side of the sink, his eyes cutting to the side as he thought. "I spend a lot of time at the shooting range. And I'd probably explode if I didn't have my wife to go home to. Hobbies are good. Something you can lose yourself in so that you don't have to think for a few hours. As for nightmares," Lassiter looked back at Buzz. "They happen. You can't see the things we do and not be affected by it. If they get too bad, go to the chief. He can arrange for you to talk to someone. Needing help doesn't make you weak, just human."

Buzz nodded, his gaze dropping to his shoes. "Thank you, sir."

Lassiter's hand landed on his shoulder. It was heavy and oddly comforting. When he spoke, his voice was serious, but more hushed than Buzz had ever heard it before. "You seem like a happy guy, McNab. Not too many people are that lucky. And too few manage it working a job like this. If you want to survive, you have to focus on the good that you can do more than the bad that those scum can. Don't lose your spirit. Don't let them steal it from you like they steal everything else."

The grip on his shoulder tightened briefly, and then was gone as Lassiter strode out the door.

Buzz looked at his grim reflection in the mirror and wiped halfheartedly at the last few drops of water clinging to his neck.

Happy?

He tried a smile. It looked strained and felt awkward. He sighed and tried again. This one was a little better; easier, although it still didn't quite reach his eyes. Buzz nodded at his reflection and turned to leave, his smile firmly in place.

Happy. Yeah, okay. He could do happy.

* * *

Kristin: This chapter's for InfernumEquinomin, who asked for something with Buzz. If anyone else has something they'd like to see, feel free to ask. I can't promise I'll write it, but I do promise I'll try.

PeanutTree-Lobsters are your peanuts? I've never had a good lobster. They're always overcooked. :/ Carlton is _totally_ a closet snuggler. He's all sorts of clingy and touchy feely, I just know it. And thank you. I was feeling really iffy about that one. I'm glad you liked it. Confession? I don't really like reading angst at all. I have no idea why I keep writing it.

34/100


	34. 32 Night

32. Night

* * *

"_After you were born, it took you four months to smile at me. That's when the clock started ticking." _Henry Spencer

* * *

It was nearly two in the morning and the last thing Henry was in the mood to be doing when he had to be up in three hours was trying to get his colicky son to fall asleep.

Four months. Four endless months of screaming and crying and dirty diapers, and he still looked at his son and wondered if he'd ever really feel like a father. He knew he was supposed to love the kid, but he didn't know if he knew how. What if he was incapable of loving his own son? What did that say about him? Maddie would figure it out sooner or later, because she figured everything out sooner or later. How would she react to knowing that he was having trouble feeling anything for Shawn?

Shawn's cries had quieted to little whimpers, but his face was still red and screwed up like he could start wailing again at any second. Henry shifted his grip and rocked him, pacing as well as he could in the small nursery. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed with his wife, but his son's eyes were scrunched tightly closed and his mouth was falling open and Henry could feel him tense and inhale deeply.

Suddenly feeling more than a little frantic, Henry started singing. It was the theme to some sitcom he didn't know the name of instead of a lullaby and he couldn't remember half the words, but Shawn immediately stilled and stared up at him. Encouraged, Henry kept singing, repeating the short theme over and over, making up his own lyrics when the real ones didn't come. Shawn was still staring at him, his eyes wide, and he made a happy sort of mewling sound before beaming a wide, toothless smile at his father.

Henry felt a small kick low in his gut and slowly, very slowly, a smile crept across his face. He stroked a finger down a downy soft cheek. "Do that again, kid."

Shawn gurgled and snuggled closer, his small mouth still curved in a soft smile. Henry carefully pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and inhaled his unique baby scent. Shawn's little body felt heavier in his arms and his breathing had slowed. Henry marveled at his tiny son and held him a little closer. Maybe everything was going to be okay after all.

"You want me to take over, Henry?" Madeleine was leaning against the nursery doorframe, wrapped in a robe. Her voice was groggy and her eyes were still puffy with sleep, but she was smiling and had an arm half lifted to take Shawn from him. Henry looked back at his son and sat down in the rocker.

"Nah, I've got him, Maddie. Go back to sleep. I'm going to stay here for a little longer and make certain he doesn't wake back up."

It was nearly two in the morning and the last thing Henry was in the mood to be doing was sitting in a hospital room waiting for his son-his idiot son who just _couldn't_ leave things well enough alone to the point where getting shot was almost becoming a regular occurrence-to regain consciousness. The chairs were uncomfortable, the coffee was crap, and everything was so blindingly white. Henry drank his coffee and reread the same paragraph in his book for the tenth time, trying not to think about how close he'd come to losing Shawn.

"Da'?" Shawn slurred. Henry dropped his book on the end of the bed and hit the call button for a nurse.

"Welcome back, kid. You're an idiot, you know that?"

Shawn's eyes were drifting in and out of focus and his smile was groggy, and there was that little kick in Henry's gut again. Shawn was looking around the room, but Henry knew he wasn't really seeing it. "'m back in…hos'pal 'gain? "

Henry cleared his throat and settled back more comfortably in his chair. "That is where they usually take you when you go and get yourself shot, Shawn." Shawn nodded, his head swinging loosely around in Henry's direction.

"Brenda here? She's m'fa'rite nurse. Very…pretty. Good a' sponge baths."

Henry thought his son was probably trying to leer, but the meds must have been numbing the muscles in his face, because he didn't know _how_ to describe the look on Shawn's face. "I'll be sure to fill out a request form," he said dryly. Shawn nodded again and flopped back against his pillows.

"You gonna yell a' me now?"

"Nah, kid, not until you're lucid enough to understand what I'm yelling at you for."

Shawn's eyes had already slid closed again and he looked on the verge of falling back asleep, but he hummed happily. "Tha's nice o' you. Love you too, da'."

Henry snorted and a corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. "Now I really know you're out of it. Just sleep, kid. I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

Kristin: This chapter's for melanie, who asked me to be nice to Henry. I think this counts as nice. Mostly. Ah, more proof that I'm horribly easy as long as you toss a little flattery my way. Thank you! ;)

In other unrelated news, I adore Icy Hot. One of my friends just turned me on to tennis and we spent about three hours on the court on Monday. I run regularly, but that wasn't near enough to prepare me for the strain. I'm so _sore_ in a strangely awesome, relaxing way.

PeanutTree-Thank you! I have something I was writing for Lassie that just wasn't working that I think would be a lot better with Vick, so if it comes together the way I'm hoping, it should be up tomorrow or Friday. "eggs still on the tail" *shudders* EWWW! That is SO not right. Oh, poor Lassie. He tries so hard.

35/100


	35. 19 Gray

19. Gray

* * *

Karen Vick wasn't hiding, because Karen Vick wasn't the sort of person who _did_ hiding. She was simply…making a strategic retreat so that she wouldn't have to deal with anyone. It wasn't the same thing, really, because everyone knew she was in her office. The blinds were just a little less open than they usually were.

She'd never considered herself to be a vain woman, but there were certain things that she'd come to expect. She was, well, she was young enough that this shouldn't be an issue yet. Neither of her parents had started going gray until they were in their forties, so she'd always assumed that she had good genetics on her side. Which had to mean that the gray hair she was currently examining in her compact had been caused by something else.

Karen jumped at a sudden, loud shout from outside her office that sounded suspiciously like Shawn Spencer having one of his visions.

Something like stress…

She pursed her lips together to keep from scowling and peeked between the blinds, catching the tail end of Spencer's performance, which seemed to consist of flopping like a fish on her head detective's desk while Guster 'translated'. Lassiter was yelling and Karen could see his hand twitching toward his gun. She made a note to schedule another psychological evaluation for him. Just in case.

Karen frowned and wound the gray hair around her finger, trying to remember if pulling it out would really make several more grow back in it's place or if that was just an old wives tale. Guster would probably know, but there was absolutely no way she would ever ask him.

She wondered if it would be ethically or legally sound to skim some money off of Spencer's next consultation fee to buy herself some hair dye.

Still, she finally decided, it could always be worse. After all, she'd seen what dealing with Shawn Spencer had done to Henry's hair.

* * *

Kristin: For the lovely PeanutTree, who wanted something with Vick. I probably wouldn't have written anything for her if you hadn't asked.

PeanutTree-Yeah, I think I usually do a pretty good job of staying away from anything cliche or overused, but I was having trouble thinking of another reason for Henry to be watching an adult Shawn sleep that wasn't creepy. :P I have a love/hate relationship with Maddie, but I almost always want to see more of her. She'll probably make a couple more appearances before I'm done. Thanks!

melanie-Thank you! I'm glad you like it and I hope you feel better!

36/100


	36. 79 Starvation

79. Starvation

* * *

He tells himself that he's been expecting it, but if he's really honest, he knows that he hasn't for a while now. Things had been going so well. It was so easy to get lured into a false sense of security. Too easy to let pretty words and a prettier mouth convince him that it would work out.

He's had enough psychological evaluations over the course of his career to know that he has 'abandonment and self worth issues'. And the last psychologist had suggested that he was carrying out some self-fulfilling prophecy.

Victoria had never been a real partner in their marriage. She was used to being catered to and obeyed, and most days he'd felt more like a servant than a husband. Deep down he had always suspected that she would leave when he was no longer able to comply with her every demand.

Lucinda was a coworker, which was never a smart choice. Their relationship had an immediate, unnecessary strain on it. And she had always been so distant, even when they were alone together. Spencer's outing them had been the catalyst, but their relationship had started with a countdown already running.

And Spencer…God, Spencer. He had been the biggest disaster of them all. Who in their right mind would ever think it was a good idea to take a man with abandonment issues and another man with a phobia of commitment and throw them together in any sort of romantic entanglement?

But…

He had needed that human contact. In the beginning, it was easy enough to pretend that that was all it was. Nothing but pure, physical gratification. But he has never been good at keeping things simple. At separating the physical from the emotional. He wants, needs, so much more than just a body in his bed. Once he's had part of someone, he craves the rest of them. Casual sex is fine for some people, but he wants it all.

Not that he has anything against touching, provided that the right person is doing said touching. His mother hasn't ever been an overly affectionate woman by any definition of the word, and as a result he both craves and shies away from physical contact. He is touch starved, but even when all he wants to do is lean in closer, something makes him draw away.

And then came Shawn, who saw him drawing away and seemed to take that as his cue to press closer. Shawn, who is beautiful and intelligent and infuriating and damaged. Shawn, who uses his humor as a defense mechanism to keep everyone emotionally distant, even as he crowds into their personal space to distract them from the fact that his gaiety is a facade.

Shawn, who makes him feel and hope and _hunger._

And when Shawn finally realizes that what had started out as a 'thing' is quickly turning into an actual relationship and takes to the road almost before he understands why his captivating young lover is freaking out, he tells himself that he's been expecting it, that he isn't surprised. What could he possibly have to offer that would ever compel someone like Shawn to stay?

* * *

Kristin: Oh, it's a dark, dark day, darlings! There's been much gnashing of teeth and rending of clothes here today. I'm so far beyond distraught that I can't even see it from here. My external hard drive, which contains over 400GB/9 years of my life died on me. Videos, pictures, almost everything I've ever written. _Everything_ is gone. I found some software than claims it can recover my files, but I don't want to get my hopes too far up. And yes, I should have backed things up, but I switched computers recently and just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

The piece I had been planning to finish for today is MIA and I really wasn't in the mood to write, so you guys are getting more of an internal ramble than a fic. It was written super fast and I barely spent any time looking over it, so it's not great and there might be errors that I missed. Sorry about that. I'll try to do something better for tomorrow.

melanie-Thanks! Glad you're feeling better.

PeanutTree-Yay! I'm glad you like it! I love Lassie to pieces, but the man has _issues_.


	37. 37 Eyes

37. Eyes

* * *

Gus was the first person to figure it out. Well, he figured it out in a manner of speaking. When he woke up to an excited Shawn Spencer jumping on his bed, babbling that he needed Gus to "drive me to the pet store! I have to buy a leash and a bowl and a collar and find some place that will give me a license because his ass is _mine_ now. Also, how hard is it to legally change your name? Because how awesome would it be if I changed my name to Timmy?" it didn't require much in the way of deductive reasoning to figure out that Lassiter had finally succumb to his best friend's 'charms'. Of course, it helped that he had been speaking Shawnese pretty much his entire life, had his own built in best friend decoder, and had been privy to Shawn's Super Amazing Plan to Woe Lassie-ie get him drunk and jump him.

Juliet was next. Lassiter was her partner. She spent so much time around him that it was just inevitable. At first she thought he was sick or something, what with the fatigue and dark circles under his eyes. Only most people aren't that _happy_ or satisfied looking when they're sick, so it had to be something else. She'd had her theories, but she had no idea how off the mark they were until he stumbled into the station late one morning. There was something off about the way he looked.

Her eyebrows nearly shot up into her hairline when she recognized Shawn's belt-a belt she herself had helped him pick out-around Lassiter's waist. After a little wheedling, she'd gotten a confession and had been sworn to secrecy.

She tapped a pencil against her desk and frowned thoughtfully at Lassiter. "Does this mean you're going to be less of a pain about him consulting on cases now?"

Lassiter glared. "No."

They never did figure out how Henry knew. Shawn maintained that his father probably really was psychic-'See! It's _hereditary_, Lassie!' 'Spencer, you've already admitted you're not psychic.' 'So?'-but they never asked and Henry never offered, so it stayed a mystery.

Lassiter had been out on the boat with him, figuring that it would probably be considered rude to turn down a friendly invitation from the man whose son he was sleeping with. Of course, it probably wasn't the best of manners to go fishing with someone when you were 'involved' with their child and had no intention of telling them. And that train of thought was just giving Lassiter a headache.

He was glaring at his bobber when Henry cleared his throat and glanced over at him, looking a little too casual for Lassiter's comfort. He tensed.

"So, you and Shawn, huh?"

Lassiter tried to swallow, but just choked. He coughed to clear his throat and stared intently at a chip in the boat's paint. "Yes, sir."

Henry hummed in response, and Lassiter really had no idea how to interpret that, so he sat back and concentrated on slowly, methodically relaxing his body starting with his toes and working his way up. He had reached his shoulders when Henry shifted and cleared his throat again.

"You do know that I didn't get rid of my pistol when I left the force, right?"

And there went his relaxation.

"Yes, sir."

It shouldn't have been surprising that Vick knew. Lassiter had been half asleep, his limbs tangled around Shawn, with a good two hours to go before his alarm clock went off when his phone rang. He'd grumbled and grumped, but answered it with a mostly coherent 'Lass'ter'.

"Lassiter, I need you at the station ten minutes ago." A pause. "And bring Mr. Spencer with you."

Once they knew Vick knew, Shawn decided it was ridiculous to keep pretending that they were a secret, and, even though it was only May, he passed out joint Christmas cards from him and Lassie to everyone at the station. And he didn't care what Lassie said, the picture he used was pure class. After all, he'd censored all the really racy bits.

* * *

Kristin: I don't know what they're doing in the picture, I don't know why it was take, and I don't know who took it. I'm not sure that I want to know.

I'm still open to taking requests if anyone has a particular character or pairing they'd like to see more of.

And it looks like I'm going to be able to retrieve almost all my files, so yay for that! *collapses with relief*

PeanutTree-Thank you!

38/100


	38. 23 Cat

23. Cat

* * *

When he was younger, Shawn had wanted a dog. There was no deep, meaningful reason for it; he was a kid and it was normal to want a pet. It hadn't happened, but he'd always kept the idea in the back of his mind. He'd always assumed that he'd finally get his dog after he moved out.

It wouldn't have been fair. He liked the way he lived, able to pick up and leave with barely a moment's notice. Everything he really needed could be tossed in a duffle bag and strapped to his bike. It wasn't safe to transport an animal on a motorcycle and he just couldn't see himself with a car. He couldn't see himself with a yard or staying in one place long enough to find a good vet or having a stable enough schedule to guarantee a few walks a day...

If he was being honest with himself, a pet would have been too much commitment.

Yes, he had signed the lease for the office, but that was different. There were ways to get out of a lease. Shawn had done it so many times that he'd lost count. But a pet? An actual living, breathing creature that would be depending on him?

No.

No matter how much he might want it, it wasn't a good idea. This was just temporary. He'd get rid of him.

He would.

Shawn pressed his face against Little Boy Cat's side, enjoying the soft warmth of his fur and the soothing vibrations of his purr.

Just as soon as this case was over.

* * *

Kristin: A Little Boy Cat for Miss Basset. He might make another appearance before I'm done, but I'm not sure if that's going to pan out yet or not. I'm having another ridiculously busy weekend and a four hour choir rehearsal yesterday completely threw off my schedule, so if you reviewed or PMed me and I haven't responded yet, I haven't forgotten, but I probably won't have another chance to sit down until sometime tonight. Just know that I really appreciate all the kind words and encouragement and will reply to you just as soon as I can.

PeanutTree-I really doubt it went over well. Thanks!

39/100


	39. 50 Breaking the Rules

50. Breaking the Rules

* * *

"Buzz has a surprisingly nice wine collection for someone on a cop's salary," Gus said as he studied the label on a bottle he'd opened a few minutes ago.

Juliet sat on the kitchen counter and swung her legs back and forth, hard enough to make a satisfying thunk, but not enough to dent the cabinet door. Buzz and Francine's house warming party was going on in the living room, but here in the kitchen there was a nearly full bottle of wine, a fake granite counter top, and Gus, so she stayed where she was and thunked happily against not really solid oak doors. She had easily passed from tipsy to drunk about an hour ago-the nearly full bottle of wine wasn't the first of the night-and she pitched forward a little bit after a particularly enthusiastic swing. Gus' hand was warm and steadying on her arm, and he peered up at her, his deep brown eyes concerned.

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the wine and her lips soft and inviting, and Gus blinked and thought, _Damn, she's pretty_, and forgot to ask if she was okay. Juliet leaned back on her palms, her expression turning drunkenly thoughtful.

"Did I ever tell you that I have a tattoo?"

Gus blinked again, thrown by the sudden non sequitur. "Uh, no, I don't think you have. I thought that tattoos were discouraged in law enforcement."

Juliet giggled and patted the air near his cheek, only the tips of her fingers brushing his skin, which made her giggle harder. "They aren't. Or they are. Not allowed." She lifted a finger to her lips and made a shushing noise. "It's preezisi...preexis...from before I entered the academy. Spring break of sophomore year. Also, it's hidden. Wanna see it?"

"Yeah, sure," Gus said, because that's what you say when a beautiful, drunk woman offers to show you her hidden tattoo. Juliet took Gus' hand to help keep herself steady and lifted the bottom of her shirt to just below her bra. The bright red cardinal, it's wings spread across her right ribcage in midflight, was vibrant against the creamy skin of her torso.

"The guy said cardinals are spunky." Juliet smiled and swayed, her eyes half closed. "I liked the sound of that."

"It's nice. It looks very...accurate," Gus said thickly and tried to pretend that he wasn't noticing how smooth and warm her skin looked. Or how very, very much of it there was to not notice, for that matter.

"You can touch it, if you want," Juliet said. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she pulled the hand that she was holding toward the tattoo.

Gus' fingers skimmed lightly down her ribcage, barely caressing the bird, before he splayed them, warm and solid, across the tattoo. Juliet's breath hitched and she pressed into the touch, her hand sliding up his arm to clutch his shoulder and tug him closer. She leaned forward, her pupils huge, and licked her lips, and Gus stopped even trying to pretend that he had a coherent train of thought going on in his head.

"You want me."

"You're drunk," Gus said. He was just sober enough to know that that mattered, but drunk enough that he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Yeah, a little, but I don't think I'm wrong about that," she murmured, her lips not even a whisper way from his, "but stop me if I am."

* * *

Kristin: Did you miss me? Because I missed you. I'm having such a hard writing week, darlings. It's been a ridiculous combination of too little time and everything I try to write ending up being crap. I feel bad about doing this, but I'm probably not going to be around much for the next few weeks. It's getting close to the end of the semester and I have concerts, exams, juries(a performance final for private music lessons), papers, projects, and an upcoming tour in Italy to prepare for. I just don't have a lot of time for recreational writing. I'll post as often as I can, but I can't make any promises. There probably wouldn't have even been an update today, but it's my birthday and my present to myself was to chisel out some writing time.

PeanutTree-Thanks!

40/100


	40. 70 67

70. 67%

* * *

_Wherever you are, whenever it's right, you'll come out of nowhere and into my life.

* * *

_

"Did you know that 67.5% of men wear briefs?"

Carlton looked up from his paper and didn't even try to keep the confusion off his face. "Excuse me?"

"All the other tables are full. Do you mind," the woman asked, gesturing toward the empty chair at his table with her coffee cup. Carlton shook his head, trying to get a grasp on what was happening, and she must have taken that as assent because she plopped down across from him and flashed him a wide, easy smile. "Thanks."

"I...wait." Carlton said as the woman helped herself to the Lifestyle section of his paper. He frowned and snatched it back, tucking it under his empty plate. "That's mine."

"And grabbing is rude," she pointed out, as if she thought trying to steal his paper _wasn't_ rude. "What's your point?"

"Do I know you?" He asked suspiciously.

"Not yet, but the place is full and you looked all lonely over here by yourself, so I thought I'd come join you." She twirled her coffee stirrer between her fingers, looking more amused than she had any right to.

"And you thought it would be appropriate to talk about underwear as an icebreaker, because..."

She sipped at her coffee, her foot tapping an uneven beat against the table leg. "Oh, I just like spreading knowledge. Plus, you look like the sort of guy who'd be fun to fluster." The woman grinned, and her cherubic face suddenly looked a lot less innocent. "You don't disappoint."

Carlton glared at her. Her smile brightened.

"I'm Deirdre."

He kept glaring at her. Her eyes shone.

"This is usually the point where you tell me your name."

Just for good measure, he glared some more. She laughed outright.

* * *

"Did you know that about one in every three murders goes unsolved?"

Carlton hooked his foot around the chair across from him and kept his eyes on his paper. Deirdre tugged on the chair and frowned for a second when it didn't move, before turning and pulling over a chair from another table.

"What am I saying? Of course you knew that, what with being a cop and all."

If he ignored her, maybe she'd go away.

* * *

"Did you know that the Sanskrit word for 'war' means 'desire for more cows'?"

"I can honestly say that I don't care." Maybe he could find a new coffee shop?

* * *

"Did you know that every year a hundred people die from choking on ball point pens?"

"Are you really incapable of saying 'hello' like a normal person?"

"I'm doing a public service. I could be saving your life right now."

Carlton snorted and nudged her chair out with his foot. "Just sit down."

* * *

"Did you know that the saying 'it's so cold out there it could freeze the balls off a brass monkey' originated when people used old cannons like the ones used in the Civil War? The cannonballs were stacked in a pyramid, called a brass monkey, and when it got too cold outside they would crack and break off."

"That a new one for me. You're kind of late this morning, Carlton."

"Bad night. You'll never believe what that jackass Spencer's trying to pull now."

* * *

Deirdre dropped gracelessly into her seat, her coffee already half gone just from the short walk from the counter to their table, and fidgeted with the rosebud vase on the table, gingerly flicking at the rose's light purple petals. Carlton folded his paper and watched her. Something was off.

"No random facts or statistics today?"

She made a small huffing noise and frowned, pinching a petal until it bruised under her fingertips. His brow furrowed in concern.

"Deirdre?"

"It's...nothing. Stupid, really." Her gaze flitted around the room. She looked on edge. Nervous. "Did you know that lavender roses are traditionally used to represent enchantment or love at first sight?"

Carlton stilled, his eyes widening slightly, and he took a sip of his coffee just for something to do. Deirdre didn't move, which was downright unnatural. The corners of Carlton's mouth quirked up in a small smile. "Is that so?"

Deirdre glanced up at him through her eyelashes, and after a long moment the tension went out of her shoulders and her lips curved in an answering smile. "Yeah."

* * *

"Did you know that only about one in five men still get down on one knee to propose?"

"Is that a yes or not?"

"Yes."

* * *

_I love you because you're not the person I dreamed of at all. I love you because you pushed me in a direction that I thought was lost. You're the answer to a question that I never posed. And it's easy to say, 'I love you anyway.' But I don't. I love you, because.

* * *

_

Kristin: This is purely unapologetic, self indulgent crack. Mmm, crack fic. You're my very favorite way to self medicate for stress. The (veryshort) soundtrack in my head to this fic is Michael Buble's 'Haven't Met You Yet' (http:/www[dot]youtube[dot]com/watch?v=1AJmKkU5POA) and 'I Love You, Because' from the musical by the same name (http:/www[dot]youtube[dot]com/watch?v=NjTESBpxxbc&feature=related). Next update should be something people who aren't me will actually be interested in.

PeanutTree- Thank you! It's nice to feel wanted. :D I love Gus and his snobby tendencies.

tumblingxdown- Thank you so much! Gules doesn't get nearly the amount of love that it should and I have no idea why. IMO, they have much better on screen chemistry than Shawn and Juliet do. *hides from all the Shules shippers*

41/100


	41. 43 Dying

43. Dying

* * *

Her lips are stained red, partially from her fading lipstick. Mostly from the blood welling up between them.

Lassiter's somewhere, running through the labyrinth of alleys and backstreets that crisscross the seedier side of Santa Barbara, chasing the perp. They'd been on a stakeout when Juliet had noticed the hooker-more girl than woman, really-leading a john into a dark alley. It made her stomach turn, like always, until she noticed the metallic glint in the man's hand. Then her stomach had clenched, and she was pulling Lassiter out of the car and sprinting across the street, her gun half drawn.

Something she doesn't want to think about is soaking her pant knees and no amount of dry cleaning will ever get the blood stains out of her jacket now that she's used it to try and slow the bleeding from the girl's gaping stomach wound. Juliet feels a little disgusted with herself for worrying about her laundry, and slips an arm under the girl's shoulder, cushioning her head in the crook of her elbow, keeping low to the ground so that she won't make things worse.

The girl-there's no way she's older than sixteen-clutches at her hand where it's pressing down against the ruined jacket, squeezing almost painfully tight, her long, fake nails digging into her skin.

Juliet can hear the ambulance sirens in the distance and she knows, just _knows_, they won't make it in time. Her grip around the girl tightens and she tries to keep her face calm and reassuring. The girl-God, she's so _young-_tries to talk, but can only manage a faint gurgle, bringing up more blood that leaks between the corners of her mouth and down her face, into her ears, over her chin.

Juliet smooths her limp, greasy hair away from her face and offers soft, soothing words. Her eyes are feverish, glassy, pleading, then dim as her body goes limp and heavy in Juliet's arms.

Later that night, when she's alone in her apartment in her pajamas with a mug of tea and a cat curled up in her lap, she'll uncompartmentalize, let herself cry, and remind herself that she's human. But for now, she stands to the side as the girl's body is loaded into the coroner's van, makes mental notes for the report she'll have to make, examines her pants to see if they're salvageable, and nods at Lassiter as he strong arms the girl's murderer into the back of a police car.

* * *

Kristin: Oh, darlings, I have the entire _day_ off tomorrow. I still have to spend at least an hour or so practicing, but other than that, it's all _mine_. I don't even know what I'm going to do with myself. Probably sleep in for the first time in about a month, go for a jog, read, do some baking and laundry, maybe even watch a movie. *flails happily* It's going to be _boring_ and_ relaxing _and _wonderful. _I'm gonna make _scones_!

PeanutTree- Thank you! I don't know, I think I tend to categorize anything that I write with an OC in it as crack. Maybe I'm too hard on my OCs, but I live in eternal fear of creating a Mary Sue. Lassie needs some loving. The writers need to get on that. Like, yesterday.

42/100


	42. 66 Traps

Kristin: **WARNING! **This chapter contains sexual content. Nothing too bad, but it definitely falls under the category of 'Things I've Written That I Hope My Mother Never Stumbles Across'.

66. Traps

* * *

Carlton's been doing less and less undercover work the last few years, and while he'd normally be excited for the chance to get back into the thick of things, this time he really wishes the chief had assigned the case to someone else. He feels ridiculously out of place in this loud, trendy, strobe filled club. He's leaning against the bar, an elbow propped against the shiny metal top for stability, with a glass of overpriced scotch dangling from his fingertips. And hadn't the slip of a bartender rolled her eyes when he'd ordered that? If he could refrain from mocking her striped, neon pink and green mohawk and glittery pixie wings, you would think she could have been a little more decent when he hadn't ordered something with a name like 'Sex on a Crocodile'. Or whatever the hell it is that the twentysomethings are drinking nowadays.

He fiddles with his loose collar, lifts his glass to his lips and tips it back, but doesn't actually drink. His eyes are fixed on the other side of the room. More specifically, he's watching the door to the private VIP room where Lou Garnor-a drug kingpin who's squeaky clean on paper, but responsible for at least five of the bodies in the morgue this week alone-is holed up.

It's nearly an hour after he first settled at the bar when a potential ticket in finally steps out of the carefully guarded room. She is at least ten years younger than Carlton and he recognizes her face from a few billboards around town. She's the sort of girl who's used to being fawned over, being wanted. Given the right circumstances, they can be the easiest sort of girl to pull.

He waits until she notices him looking at her before letting his eyes wander. He takes in her tight little body, wrapped in a tight little dress, and valiantly fights back the growing urge to take a tight little step toward the exit. Instead, he reminds himself that he has a job to do and locks gazes with her. He can see his reflection in the mirror behind her, his expression hot, carnal, and he holds the look for one, two, three beats, before turning away dismissively.

There's another mirror behind the bar and he sees when her eyes widen and her soft, full lips part in surprise.

He gives her five minutes.

She's sidling up beside him in three.

He ignores her and she offers to buy him a drink. He arches an eyebrow and nods toward his full glass and she pouts and bats her eyelashes. Her hand is on his bicep and he forces himself to stay relaxed. Carlton makes a show of lifting her hand off of him, his fingers light and teasing as they ghost over the pulse at her wrist, her palm, the undersides of each tapered digit. Her cheeks are flushed and her breath comes a little faster. He lets go of her and turns away again. She presses the full length of her long, lithe body against his side, her eyes dark with promises.

He glances down at her, stands and heads out onto the dance floor, knowing that she'll be tottering right behind him on her impossibly high heels, and then they're just two more bodies writhing in the pulsating, crushing crowd. Her back is against his chest and his hand settles at her hip, his thumb tracing small patterns over her hipbone. One of her arms comes up and back to drape around his neck and he takes his cue to drop his head to her shoulder. He can feel her sigh as his breath hits her neck, and he lightly brushes his lips over her sensitive skin.

She's flush against him now, her ass grinding against his groin, her movements a sensual parody of dancing, and she slides his hand up from her hip, over slippery silk and a concave stomach to cup her breast. He gently bites under her jaw, his teeth more suggestion than anything, and she shudders and tugs at the hair at the base of his skull, pulling him tighter against her.

Carlton steers her through the the other dancers toward an empty stretch of wall-And would you just look at that? It's right next to the private room and everything.-and grabs her arm, easily flipping her around to face him. He looms over her, takes a step forward, and she's breathing hard, pinned to the wall by just his eyes and the single hand at her wrist. He smiles then, slow and almost mocking, and she _moans_, arching toward him. And then his other hand's at her neck and he's almost attacking her mouth with a rough, biting kiss. His leg slides between hers and her free hand is scrambling everywhere.

Which, fuck, is bringing it way too close to the microphone taped at the small of his back, so he takes both her wrists in one hand and presses them against the wall over her head, stretching her body up against his.

She moans again, wraps one of her legs around his-_fuck,_ pointy stiletto jabbing into his calf-and leans forward to playfully bite at his chin. He ducks back down, licks into her mouth, sweeps a thumb over a hard nipple, sucks a bruise into the creamy skin under her ear, _pushes_ until she's quivering and whimpering and rolling her hips against his. When he pulls away, she's panting and looking more than a little debauched. A few murmured suggestions in her ear and she's twisting her wrists out of his grasp with a wicked smile and hooking a slender finger in his belt loop and leading him past the guards and into the private room.

And there, with a brunette on his left, a redhead on his right, and a blond in his lap, is Garnor, looking so bloated and shiny and smug and polished that Carlton feels sick. Well, okay, sick_er_.

Garnor eyes him and Carlton knows his eyes look glazed and unfocused and he fakes a stumble. Nothing to see, just a drunk man looking to get laid. Barely here now and definitely won't remember in the morning. And then Garnor's back to laughing and bragging with a tattooed man whose neck is about as thick around as Carlton's waist.

He lets the girl push him down onto a couch near Garnor's and straddle his lap. Her thick hair falls like a shiny curtain around their faces before she bends lower, pressing wet, sucking kisses across his jaw and down his throat, while her fingers are slipping between his buttons to get at more skin. He slides his hands up her thighs, under her short skirt, over the swell of her ass-Do none of these club girls wear underwear?-and by the time the girl is begging and jerking desperately against his fingers, the mic has recorded enough to put Garnor away for at least twenty-five to thirty years.

It's nearly dawn when he finally collapses into bed. Victoria's awake, staring at the ceiling, and she rolls up onto her elbow, her mouth open on a half formed word, when she sees his swollen lips and the marks on his neck and collarbone. Her mouth snaps closed and she looks at him. She doesn't yell or ask questions or demand explanations. She just looks at him for a long, quiet moment before curling up against his side.

Carlton reminds himself that she knows, that she understands that what he does, he does because he has to. It's important work. He helps save lives, keeps the filth off the streets. Keeps the streets safe for her. He tells himself that and kisses the top of her head, and when the alarm on Victoria's cell phone goes off a few hours later, they both pretend that it woke them up and that they haven't been tense and faking sleep and clinging to each other since he laid down.

That evening, when he comes home from turning in his report on Garnor, there's a note on the table in the entryway and Victoria and her things are gone.

* * *

Kristin: I don't like Victoria, but most days I think I can understand her. Carlton's a committed workaholic who has Issues when it comes to failing and would probably do pretty much anything-that's not illegal-to get the job done. And what else can you do when anything becomes too much?

Also, I have next to no experience writing anything 'sexy'. So...um, yeah...Short poll. Was it too painfully bad/awkward? Y/N?

tumblingxdown-Thanks! It both was and wasn't intentional. The thing I probably like most about Shassie is how Lassie grounds Shawn and Shawn pushes Lassie out of his comfort zone, so I wanted that dynamic in their relationship, but other than that she wasn't meant to be based on him. Adorkable is quite possibly one of the best words ever and I can't remember the last time I saw/heard someone use it. :D It's so easy to write Juliet so that she's all sweetness and light, and it kind of pisses me off sometimes that that aspect is what so many people focus on because there's so much more to explore in her character, which I wanted to try to do a little. I'm just glad it worked! Also, I need to stop saying 'so' so much.

43/100


	43. 71 Obsession

71. Obsession

* * *

Chad flung open the mansion's front door and leapt into the room. "I have a package for you, my _love_," he said with a twisted smile. "It is..._me_!"

Corrine gasped from her-beautifully-sprawled position on her sofa, where she'd collapsed ten minutes ago after she'd learned that her mother was actually the evil twin of her birth mother and had stolen her away because she thought that her sister was too stupid to raise a child if she was running around getting knocked up by bipolar rodeo clowns.

"No! It is not possible! We killed you! I helped to dump your lifeless, yet still strangely attractive, body in the well!" Corrine exclaimed.

"Ah!" Chad proclaimed, lifting his arm dramatically, his finger pointed at the ceiling. "But what you do not know is that before I was a simple delivery boy, I was a grizzly bear trainer and became very adept at playing dead! And before that, I was a pearl diver, and am capable of holding my breath for several minutes! And now I have returned for you, Corrine! You haunt me constantly, whether I am asleep or awake! I shall make you pay for your crimes against me, and in doing so I shall make you mine!"

Corrine gasped again, pressed a well manicured hand against her heaving bosom, and stumbled away from the sofa. "No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Shawn, what are you doing?"

"Oh, hey buddy!"

Gus stood in the office doorway, his gaze flickering between a manically grinning Shawn, the Barbie and Ken dolls on his desk, and the dozen or so empty Red Bull cans scattered on the floor.

On second thought...

Gus turned and walked back out to his car without another word, pretending that he couldn't hear Shawn's cries of "Gus! Come back! I need you to be the butler! He's a paraplegic sociopath, Gus! You were made to play this part! _Gus_!"

* * *

Kristin: In my head, this is so totally canon. Seriously. You have no idea. And yes, all those exclamation marks really were necessary...

Gah, I'm feeling so completely unmotivated to work on any of the stuff that's going moldy on my hard drive. Right now I have Lassie/Jules friendship, Jules dream prompt that I borrowed*coughstolecough* from gnbrules(who is totally awesome and if you aren't reading her stuff, you should be), Gus gets the girl (GGtG!), Gus learns about Shassie, and preseries Shawn and Lassie interaction fics in various degrees of completeness getting all dusty while I sit and spend my increasingly rare spare time trolling the internet for Reid/anyone male fic that I haven't read a thousand times already. (Gubler is yummy beyond belief based on his hands and lower lip alone, but I just can't picture Reid with anyone female, which is a little strange since I usually adopt a fairly lax 'anything goes' attitude when it comes to shipping.) I could try combing through the Psych archives for a creative jumpstart, but I _really_ try to limit how much I read in a fandom if I'm also writing in it. It's just way too easy for me to be influenced by other writers and one of my biggest goals when I write is to stay as original as I possibly can.

Anyway, before I spun completely off topic, I was going to ask if anyone has a preference on what I finish next, since at least half of my problem with finishing the fics is my apparent inability to pick which one to work on first.

As always, feedback-even negative, so long as it's constructive-is welcome and appreciated.

**Update:** So, I just wrote my very first Criminal Minds fic and I blame it entirely on this ridiculously long, rambling author's note. If you're into that fandom, please check it out and let me know what you think.

PeanutTree-Thank you! I think I can safely say that absolutely everything I've ever written that could be classified as smutty is in this collection, so that should tell you how little experience I have with it. But one of the reasons I decided to do this was to push myself out of my comfort zone, so...yeah. *laughs* I'd say I'm doing pretty well on that front. There's a whole big thing in my head about how Lassie knew how to pick up the girl at the club, but I might end up writing some of it up, so I don't want to say too much about it. The very short version is that his college roommate was a player and Lassie has always paid attention to things that he thinks might come in handy.

44/100


	44. 30 Under the Rain

30. Under the Rain

* * *

Shawn is in the kitchen making pancakes-pineapple for him, regular for his Lassie. He's his own boss, so he can have as many days off as he wants, but having Lassie for an entire weekend is almost unheard of and he's planning on making the most of it. His plans start with breakfast in bed. If he's worked out the timing right on his itinerary, they might actually make it out of the bedroom in time for dinner.

Somewhere in the distance, he can hear sirens. They sounded like police and fire, but he ignores them. None of that has anything to do with them for the next forty-eight hours. He's unplugged the internet and phone, hidden Lassie's cell, and thrown their paper in the next yard for their neighbor's pit bull to eat. He's even reprogrammed Lassie's television so that the only shows they can access are cartoons. This weekend is just for them. A kind of honeymoon almost.

Shawn loads a tray with their breakfasts and whistles happily as he carefully makes his way back to the bedroom. Despite his care, Shawn stumbles and nearly falls as the floor underneath him suddenly trembles. He braces himself against the bedroom door frame and just barely manages to save the food from falling. "Whoa," he says to a surprised looking Lassiter. "Wasn't expecting the earth to move until later."

Carlton rolls his eyes at Shawn's leer and pulls back the covers for him. He frowns as Shawn crawls into bed beside him, settling the tray between them. "Earthquakes aren't really common around here. I don't think Santa Barbara's had one since the seventies."

Shawn shrugs and spears a bite of pancake to waggle in front of Lassiter's mouth. "Yeah, but we are in California. It's not exactly unheard of. Besides, it might have just been a building being demoed or something. Open wide, Lassipants."

"Do you smell that?"

"What?"

"That smoke."

"It's probably just some kids on the beach with a bonfire."

Shawn nibbles on Carlton's lower lip and that's just plain distracting. He hums into the kiss for a second before turning his head away to glare out the window in the general direction of the beach. Shawn makes a little disappointed noise and noses insistently along his jaw. "That beach isn't zoned for bonfires."

"Lassie," Shawn says lowly in his ear, his breath making Carlton shiver.

"Huh?" His grip around Shawn's waist tightens, but he doesn't look away from the window.

"I don't care." Shawn shifts to straddle Carlton and bite his earlobe. "Just for a little bit, forget about being a cop. If they're still there in an hour, I'll give you back your phone and you can sic McNab on their asses, okay?"

Carlton nods, suddenly slightly breathless as Shawn starts to press hot, open mouthed kisses along his jaw. He cards his fingers through the younger man's hair and tugs him closer. "Yeah, okay."

If it wasn't for the faint buzz of a plane overhead, it would almost be possible to believe that the entire world had shrunk down to just the two of them in their perfect, private moment.

Then the next bomb fell and the moment exploded.

* * *

Kristin: It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel like a hack. Not entirely happy with this one. I like the general idea, but I don't think I executed it as well as I could have.

PeanutTree-Oh, Lassie has hidden talents like you wouldn't _believe_. *grins* Thanks!

45/100


	45. 9 Drive

9. Drive

* * *

There's a storm coming, and it darkens the normally bright, midday California sky so much that Carlton flicks on the headlights of his old, beat up truck. Or at least that was the plan, but when he flips the switch, nothing happens. He frowns, his eyes sliding away from the road as he works the switch back and forth. Carlton would swear his eyes didn't leave the road for longer than a second, but that's all it takes for the truck to drift off of the smooth asphalt and onto the rough shoulder. Carlton pops back upright and curses loudly. There's a teenage boy on the side of the road. His face is blurred by adrenalin and speed, but Carlton can make out the red slash of his gaping mouth and the rigidness of his frame.

Carlton doesn't know how he manages to avoid the kid-probably some combination of reflexive defensive driving and the kid throwing himself out of the way at the last minute-and he's not about to question it right now. The tires squeal faintly as he swings the steering wheel around and jerks to a stop on the side of the road. He jumps out of the cab and lopes around to where the boy has fallen to sit half stunned in the grass, an overstuffed backpack on the ground beside him. He blinks up at Carlton with huge, stunned eyes and something protective and caring squeezes tightly in his chest.

"You okay there, kid?" Carlton isn't exactly certain what the proper protocol is when you've just nearly hit someone with a moving vehicle, but he's guessing that making sure they aren't injured is pretty high on the list. The boy looks more surprised than hurt, his eyes managing to go even wider when a fat raindrop lands square in the middle of his forehead. He shakes all over like a dog before lurching up onto his feet, his movements awkward and uncertain as if he isn't quite comfortable in his body yet. There's an ominous rumbling from overhead and Carlton feels a few warm raindrops plop down on him. The kid still hasn't answered and the feel of the rainwater rolling over his scalp, between strands of hair is distracting. Carlton scrubs a hand over his head and raises his eyebrows. "Well? Are you okay? Do you need a ride?"

The boy squints up at the sky, his t-shirt already dotted with moisture, and glances over at Carlton. He touches the tip of his tongue to his top lip and gives him a quick once over before nodding. "A ride would be good."

Carlton keeps an eye on the boy as he slings his backpack up onto a thin shoulder and shuffles toward the truck. He's never been good at guessing people's ages and this is no exception, although he can't possibly be out of high school yet. He isn't exactly what Carlton would think of as attractive, but there's something compelling about his expressive eyes and his mouth, now that it's closed instead of hanging stupidly open, looks soft and inviting. Carlton breathes in hard and forces himself to focus on buckling up and pulling back out onto the mostly deserted road.

It takes several minutes of driving with no sound but the rumble of the engine and the dull hum of the air conditioner before Carlton realizes that he never asked exactly where he was supposed to be giving the boy a ride _to_. When he looks over, he's leaning against the door, his forehead pressed against the foggy glass, and his fingers and feet jumping like it's taking everything in him to keep from springing up and flailing wildly around. Too much extra energy, Carlton decides as he focuses back on the road. Nothing he won't grow out of. Carlton clears his throat and out of the corner of his eye he can see the boy's head turn to look at him.

"Where am I taking you to..." he starts, trailing off when he remembers that he never bothered to actually ask the kid's name either. He inwardly rolls his eyes and congratulates himself on a job well done.

The boy huffs a laugh and says, "Shawn. I'm Shawn. And I really don't care. Where ever you're going is fine."

Carlton rolls his eyes for real this time. "Right, kid. If you want to do something stupid, then I can't stop you, but I'm not going to help." He glances over at Shawn's slumped form again, taking in his too big clothes, too skinny limbs, and too shaggy hair. He looks impossibly young. The last thing Carlton needs is some minor making trouble for him. "Exactly how old are you, anyway?"

Shawn's eyes are narrowed to intense slivers and the look he levels at Carlton is unsettling. Almost as if he's memorizing everything about him. Carlton swallows, suddenly a little uneasy, as Shawn's lips curve in a slow, lazy smile and his ever changing eyes darken. "I'm old enough."

Carlton's hand slips and the truck pitches to the right before he jerks it straight again. Shawn's smile widens and he stretches, his arm settling across the back of the bench seat so that his fingers just barely brushed Carlton's shoulder. The unexpected touch practically burns through the thin cotton of his shirt and Carlton sucks a breath in too quickly and chokes on his own saliva. He pulls the truck off onto the shoulder and bends over the steering wheel, hacking hard enough that his eyes sting. Shawn takes the opportunity to slide closer until they are hip to hip and smacks him enthusiastically on the back.

When his breathing is finally under control he straightens, not really surprised when the warmth of Shawn's hand doesn't disappear, but just slides from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back. However, he _is_ surprised when Shawn's other hand slips up under the bottom of his t-shirt, the boy's blunt nails scraping over the skin above his waistband in a way that makes his pulse jump.

"Dude, get me the hell away from Santa Barbara and I'll be anything you want me to be."

Fuck, Carlton thinks dazedly as he looks down at the kid, who's moving even closer, his eyes half lidded and his face tilted invitingly upward. Wait. Kid. _Fuck._ The heat that had been flooding through him freezes and he scowls at Shawn.

"Get. Your damned hands. Off. Of me." He bites out between clenched teeth. Shawn's eyes widen and Carlton thinks he might have actually gone a little pale under his tan, but he can't be sure. "What kind of game do you think you're playing at here?"

"No game," he says, but his brash, confident voice has a shade of uncertainty to it and he hurriedly scoots back away from Carlton. "Look, haven't you ever gotten into your truck and wanted to just drive and drive until you reached the end of the world where no one can find you? Are you really content just sitting still, because I'm not. I want to be out there doing something. _Anything_. It's hell back there, man. I can't take it anymore."

Carlton has to look away, because if he keeps staring into those damn, hypnotizing eyes, he's going to end up doing something a lot stupider than just almost letting Shawn kiss him. "I'm sorry, Shawn, but I can't help you. It wouldn't be right."

Shawn scowls at him with every bit of intensity that he'd been putting into seducing him just moments earlier. "Okay then," he says tightly as he reaches down to grab one of his bag's straps. He struggles with it for a few seconds as he pulls it up off the floorboard and onto his lap, then the door's open and he's slipping out of it. "Thanks for the lift. I'll make my own way from here."

Carlton sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair. "Shawn, get back in the truck and let me drive you home."

"Bye," Shawn says brightly as he slams the door closed. Carlton leans over and cranks the window down, resisting the urge to jump out after him and strangle his scrawny neck.

"You're not being smart about this. Hitchhiking is dangerous. You're going to get hurt." Carlton grits his teeth when Shawn flashes a shit eating grin and gives him a jaunty little wave.

"Maybe," he calls over his shoulder as he starts trekking back down the road. "But at least it'll be something new!"

The right thing to do would be to run after him and force him to go back home, except...Except something in Carlton's gut insists that if Shawn doesn't want to do something, there's absolutely nothing he can do to force him. Carlton stays where he is for a long time, watching Shawn grow smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. It isn't until Shawn rounds a corner and disappears from view entirely that Carlton finally throws the truck back into drive and heads back toward Santa Barbara, his stomach roiling with guilt the entire way.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.**

Shawn fails so hard at Stranger Danger.

Still not 100% happy with this, but I've been fighting it for months and I finally feel like I have it at least halfway decent.

46/100


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